


nobody knows me at home anymore

by NahaFlowers



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Childbirth, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Mentions of past child abuse, Pregnancy, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 17:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13036218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NahaFlowers/pseuds/NahaFlowers
Summary: She remembered the man in the library who had encouraged her to take any books she wanted, and the light in James McGraw’s sea-green eyes when he had spoken of the man he had loved, and she found she could not be glad to be alive, could not be glad that her father had sacrificed Thomas Hamilton for her, all those years ago, nor that he had sent her away before the trial of Captain Flint to ensure her survival, robbing her of the chance to try and save all or any of them.Abigail goes back to Charlestown, and goes on a journey to find Thomas Hamilton. She doesn't expect the hurt, the heartbreak, or the family she finds along the way.





	1. Abigail

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [madisilverflint](http://madisilverflint.tumblr.com/post/168600240677/nobody-knows-me-at-home-anymore-by) and [livila](http://liviladoodles.tumblr.com/post/168621675397/black-sails-big-bang-challenge-2017) for their AMAZING art/moodboard! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this story, it's come right down to the wire, but I've loved every minute of writing it!

Abigail went back. After the sacking of Charlestown by Captain Flint, the man she knew as James McGraw, she went back to the place where her father died to see if she could salvage anything from the ruins.

  
It was against the advice of those looking after her, her father’s men, but since her father was dead, they had to bow to her word now, so she ignored them. She didn’t care. She had to go back, had to see what was left, see the damage for herself.

  
To her horror, Lady Hamilton was still there, stood in a coffin with a bullet hole in her head. Swallowing down the bile that rose in her throat at the sight of her, staring eyes haunted with her father’s betrayal, even in death, starting to smell, starting to rot as maggots crawled through her flesh, she ordered her men to put her down, close her eyes, veil her, and close the coffin. She would have a proper funeral, she said, despite the protests of her father’s men. Abigail knew she could expect trouble from them eventually, but for now, she was an orphan and they were in charge of looking after her, and doing her bidding. That’s what she thought. She had no idea just how close danger was, and it was all Thomas Hamilton’s fault.

  
She found the documents after Miranda’s funeral, sparsely attended, only her and a few of her father’s men, to keep an eye on her rather than to grieve. She was glad the man who had shot her was not there, glad, indeed, that he had been killed by Captain Flint – Abigail didn’t think she could have borne his smug, bragging face, his I-told-you-so mannerisms, even if this whole mess was his fault in the first place. Still, though Miranda’s funeral was, in practice, really only attended by her, she felt she had done right by the woman who had looked after her, done everything she could to protect her and deliver her back to her father, even her father was now dead and, to put in the pirates’s words, a lying shit to boot. She paid the gravediggers well to bury her in the cemetery just outside of town, which had escaped most of the damage, and she prayed for Miranda’s soul, as well as that of her husband’s, and the still-living one of James McGraw. Of all of them, Abigail thought, Mr McGraw was probably the one who needed her prayers most.

  
It was only after that that she ventured into the ruins of her father’s house. Although there were bits of masonry all around, and the house was hardly in a fit state to be inhabited, the study remained surprisingly intact. Abigail set to work sorting through her father’s papers, trusting no one else to do so, wanting to know the truth of all her father’s activities through the years (as well as how much she was set to inherit, or if the money would go to her cousin in England – the title certainly would).   
It was not until she got to the last drawer that she found anything interesting. The previous drawers had merely been financial documents, about the business of his estate and of Charlestown, as well as personal financial transactions, and legal documents, many, Abigail was sorry to say, regarding the hanging of pirates, or even those just tenuously related to pirates. But the bottom drawer was locked. Humming to herself in interest, Abigail went to fetch her father’s handyman, who had survived the attack on Charlestown with a deep scar on his forehead, courtesy of flying masonry or shrapnel, he wasn’t sure which. He was now blind, but Abigail had insisted on keeping him on – he could still do the majority of his work, and there was nobody better for picking a lock, it seemed, for when she called him in, he jimmied the lock with a screwdriver for about a minute before it popped open. Or perhaps it was just a poorly made lock, Abigail mused.

  
Inside were many things: letters between him and Lord Alfred Hamilton, pertaining to the institutionalisation of Thomas Hamilton and proving, if Abigail needed any more proof, her father’s betrayal. There was a letter, dated 1710, confirming to Lord Ashe the death (murder) of Lord Alfred Hamilton on the high seas by one Captain Flint, and thereafter many newspaper cuttings and pamphlets about the scourge of the pirate menace, particularly relating to Captain Flint himself. Abigail snorted. Her father hadn’t been afraid of Mr McGraw because he was a pirate – rather, he had been deathly terrified that he would discover her father’s betrayal and come after him for revenge, as he had taken his revenge on Thomas’s father. And so, it seemed, Lord Peter Ashe had made Charlestown as hostile to pirates as possible in order to prevent Captain Flint from ever coming there. So many men, good men, defamed and killed, just for one man’s fear. And it hadn’t mattered in the end, anyway. He had been killed just the same.   
Abigail felt a sob rising up in her throat. She had cried little over her father so far; throughout his funeral she had just felt blank, unconnected to this man she had spent half her life away from and returned to, only to discover his betrayal of his friends, those who had trusted him. But no matter what he had done, her father had loved her, Abigail knew that, and to know that he was dead and she was alone in the world was more than she could bear, at times. At times she even hated Captain Flint for killing him, but then she remembered how he had spoken of Thomas Hamilton, one night of an interminable many on the Walrus, and found she could not blame him for what he had done.   
  
“Abigail,” he had addressed her one night. He had entered his cabin without knocking, so she jumped. He had immediately looked abashed. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He had turned to go.

  
“Wait,” she had said, interested despite herself. “What is it?” He rarely addressed her by name and always seemed to wait for her to talk first, if he ever spoke to her. She got the feeling that this fearsome pirate captain was nervous around her, wanting her approval, and never quite sure if he was going to get it, or even deserved it. It was true that she spoke more to Lady Hamilton, felt more comfortable around her, having known her in London, and not having the fears her father’s stories of pirates had put into her to contend with, with her. But she felt oddly fond of Mr McGraw even so, for he was not only kind to her, kinder than any of the captains she’d experienced so far, but she also explained things to her, treated her like an adult, asked her opinion and answered her questions when she asked them.   
“I-” he faltered, casting her a sidelong glance. There had been a lot of sidelong glances in the past few weeks, the first being, Abigail thought, when she had enthusiastically hugged and kissed Eleanor Guthrie goodbye on the morning of their departure. She blushed at the memory but she did not regret it; and after all, it was likely that she would never see the other woman again. 

  
Mr McGraw pressed his eyes closed, as though annoyed at himself, and Abigail rose from the desk where she had been writing her diary and placed a hand on his, and he opened his eyes and looked down at her in confusion.

  
“Mr McGraw,” she said, smiling. “You’ve been giving me strange looks ever since I bid farewell to Miss Guthrie.” James bit his lip and looked away. “Does it bother you?” she said gently. “I know some people think it wrong, but I thought – here, of all places-” She stopped, unable to finish. She felt stupid. Why should here be any different than England, she thought. Because they were pirates, and therefore outside the law? It was wishful thinking that the men here weren’t still dictated by the same moral codes that the rest of society were, however distant they were from the law. The men here, she was discovering, were just men, and no worse or better, for the most part, than those she had met in England. Perhaps this applied here too.

  
“No,” said James, a little forcefully. “No.” He cleared his throat, looking away from her, at the wooden planks of the floor. “But it is- about that, I suppose.”   
“Oh,” said Abigail, surprised. “Are you telling me you approve?” she said teasingly, grinning at him.

  
He huffed out a laugh. “I suppose so, yes,” he said, smiling down at her. Abigail was surprised to notice there were a few tears gathered at the corner of his eyes, which he quickly blinked away. “Eleanor’s a good person. You could do a lot worse.” His eyes crinkled. “Not that you need my approval, of course,” he said hurriedly.

  
“Of course not,” said Abigail, “but I appreciate it all the same.” She had a feeling that Mr McGraw was stalling for time, but the revelation that he so clearly approved of her was such a pleasant surprise that she was happy to go along with him. “Although I doubt I’ll see her again.”

  
“No,” he agreed, peering at her sadly. He sighed. “Why don’t we sit down?”

  
Abigail nodded and resumed her seat in the captain’s chair, before realising that he might have preferred to sit there himself. He perched himself on the opposite chair without complaint, however, even looking faintly amused at the reversal of positions.

  
He set his hands on the wood of the desk, looking down at them, rocking back and forth very slightly, as if trying to prepare himself for whatever he had to say. Abigail intuited this and stayed silent, waiting for him to speak.

  
“Did you ever meet Lord Thomas Hamilton?” he asked, and his voice had changed – it was deeper, rougher, more gravelly. She looked up at him sharply, but his jaw was set and his face carefully blank.

  
“Once, that I can remember,” Abigail said. “I was looking for my father, and I wandered into the library by mistake. I was only small, but I already loved books, and at first I was so struck by it – how many there were, of all different sizes, shapes and colours – we had a library at home but it was nothing like as big or varied as this – that I didn’t notice him at first. I jumped when I heard his voice.” Just like I jumped when I heard your voice earlier, she added in her head.

  
“That was an impressive library,” said Mr McGraw, eyes soft with reminiscence. “What did he say?” he asked, and his voice was soft, but urgent, as if Thomas Hamilton’s words to Abigail Ashe in a library ten years ago were the most important thing in the world.

  
“He said, ‘you’re Abigail’,” she said, “and I said yes, and asked him if he would be Lord Thomas Hamilton, my father’s friend. He smiled and said he was.” Mr McGraw just nodded, drinking it in. “Then I told him I was looking for my father.  He told me my father was in his study, and he’d just come to fetch a particular tome, but that they would be a good while yet. I nodded and said I should go back to my mother, but my eyes were still roaming around the books, and he said, ‘or you can stay in the library if you would like to. I’ll tell your mother where you’ve got to.’ He had the nicest smile when he said that, as if it were no trouble at all, even though I could easily have found my way back to my mother and told her where I was going. I told him as much and he said, ‘but then you’d have less time with the books!’ and wouldn’t hear of it. Before he left he told me to take out as many books as I like, and I could take one home with me if I found one I really liked.” She smiled for a minute. She had only been five years old, and she was surprised she had remembered it so well, but it was such a kind, soft memory, and more to the point, it was there in that library that she had first become a truly voracious reader, finding several books probably beyond her age but that she loved with all her heart, begging her father to ask Lord Hamilton if she could take them all, rather than just one. Her father had seemed very put-upon, telling her that if Lord Hamilton had said one book, then one book he meant, but he had asked for her all the same and delivered, smiling, the news that he had said yes.

  
She looked up at Mr McGraw and was shocked to see that there were tears falling, unnoticed, down his face, but that he was smiling, a light in his eyes such as she had never seen in the captain yet, one that had perhaps not been present for a long time. She reached for his hand. “Are you well, sir?”   
Blinking himself back to reality at the sound of Abigail’s voice, he nodded, meeting her eyes. “Thank you- for that,” he said, and there were tears in his voice too. “He was a remarkable man, wasn’t he?”

  
Abigail nodded. In truth, she had only met the man once, but he had seemed quite remarkable to her then, becoming, in her childish mind, almost a guardian angel-like figure. A picture was beginning to form in her mind of what Thomas Hamilton may have been for James McGraw, but it was not her place to say it. Just to listen.   
“Do you know,” he said, and his voice came with great effort now, a hoarse almost-whisper that was more appropriate for a deathbed conversation, “what happened to him?”   
Abigail shook her head. “All I know is that we stopped visiting the Hamiltons. “I was disappointed because I wanted to use the library again, but my father told me I could have as many books of my own as I liked, so that satisfied me, for the most part.” She backtracked, feeling stupid. “Sorry, that was- I didn’t mean-” She knew now something terrible must have happened to Thomas Hamilton and replaying her words in her mind, she sounded uncaring, almost callous.

  
“It’s all right,” said Mr McGraw, forcing a smile. “You were five, Abigail. And I don’t doubt that Thomas would have been inordinately pleased that you remembered him for his books.” There was that look again on Mr McGraw’s face, faraway and simultaneously deliriously happy and grieving.

  
“What happened to him?” asked Abigail, gently, prepared for the answer yet gripping the table with her hands, white-knuckled.

  
“He-” Mr McGraw had to stop, on account of the sob that made his way up his throat.

  
Abigail swallowed. “He died, didn’t he?” she asked, voice small.

  
He nodded, swallowing a few times before he was able to speak. “Did you know that Thomas and I were working with your father to try and procure pardons for the pirates of Nassau?” he said eventually.

  
“My father? Procuring pardons for pirates?” Abigail had surmised that the three men had been working together, presumably to reclaim Nassau for England, but the idea that her father had been working to pardon pirates, given his attitude to them now, was something of a shock.

  
“Yes, well,” said Mr McGraw, suppressing a smile. “He wasn’t best keen on the idea. But he helped us, despite the difficulty, and I’m grateful to him for that. He was there when Thomas was taken away,” he said, vaguely.

  
“He was?”

  
“Yes.” Mr McGraw’s eyes were squeezed tight shut again, and he was clenching his fists. “He was there and I wasn’t,” he whispered, in agony. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”   
Abigail’s eyes widened in sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she said, taking Mr McGraw’s hand in her small one. “Truly I am.”

  
With difficulty, James smiled at her. “I- I know. That- you know, for so long, it has only been Miranda and I to keep his memory alive, remember him how he was. Peter was far away – after he informed us of Thomas’s death, we never received contact from him again – and everyone else who had ever known Thomas thought him a sodomite, or a madman, and they thought me a monster.” He spat these last words. “At least I was able to escape their wrath, to become the thing they hated, to try and continue Thomas’s dream in whatever way I could – Thomas, facing that scorn every day, tortured and god-knows-what in Bethlem – well,” McGraw gave a bitter laugh, empty, as if all emotion had been wrung out the day Thomas had died, “it’s a wonder he lasted as long as he did.” He closed his eyes, bowing his head and letting tears fall on the wood of the desk. “I should have saved him,” he whispered, and now his voice was anything but devoid of emotion.

  
“Bethlem?” asked Abigail, in lieu of anything meaningful to say – she could provide comforting words, yes, but every time she formed a sentence it sounded hollow – also a memory had stirred, “as in Bethlem Royal Hospital?”

  
“Yes,” said James between gritted teeth. “Why?”

 

  
“I remember my father mentioning it, when I was little. Not long before he left for the Colonies. I overheard my mother and him discussing it, when they thought I was abed.”   
“What did they say?” asked McGraw, curiosity momentarily distracting him from his grief.

  
Abigail thought. “My mother didn’t want him to go there,” she said. “She thought it might be dangerous. But my father insisted. Said he had to. For his own peace of mind.” She paused, looking up at Mr McGraw. “Do you think he was going to see Thomas?”

  
“Probably,” he said, “I doubt your father knew many other people who have been committed to Bedlam.” He squeezed his eyes shut painfully. “God, he saw him there. He could have got him out.” Mr McGraw opened his eyes and glared at Abigail. “He could have got him out.”

  
Abigail licked her lips. She understood that Mr McGraw was in pain, but that truly wasn’t her father’s fault, of that she was sure. “Maybe he tried,” she offered. “Maybe that’s why he went there.”

  
“Maybe,” said McGraw in a strangled whisper, before repeating to himself, under his breath, “he was there.”

  
Abigail had patted him on the hand then, and, when he didn’t seem like to respond, lost in his own head, she took a blanket from the hammock and set it round his shoulders, before venturing out of the cabin to find Miranda, to offer her own condolences and inform her of Mr McGraw’s near-catatonic state.

  
  
Abigail knew better of her father’s actions now, of course. Thomas Hamilton’s death was her father’s fault, plain and simple, his and Thomas Hamilton’s own father. Perhaps the only redeeming quality her father had retained to put him above a slimeball such as Lord Alfred Hamilton was that he had, purportedly, betrayed his friend for her own safety and survival – but what use was her life if it had been paid for with the death of such a good and pure person as Thomas Hamilton had been. She remembered the man in the library who had encouraged her to take any books she wanted, and the light in James McGraw’s sea-green eyes when he had spoken of the man he had loved, and she found she could not be glad to be alive, could not be glad that her father had sacrificed Thomas Hamilton for her, all those years ago, nor that he had sent her away before the trial of Captain Flint to ensure her survival, robbing her of the chance to try and save all or any of them.  McGraw would have listened to her, she was sure of it, because she had listened to him, would listen to him, hear him out like her father had refused to, had only pretended to do.

  
Digging through the documents without really looking at them in detail, she divided them into piles to turn her full attention to later. Something did catch her eye though, and when she started to read it properly, she gasped.   
Thomas Hamilton, the document said. Thomas Hamilton was transported to a plantation in Savannah, Georgia, where he was to be made an indentured slave. Abigail looked at the date on the document.   
October 5th, 1710.   
Thomas was alive.   
Or, at least, he hadn’t died in Bedlam, Abigail mused. But why tell Mr McGraw that, unless they didn’t want him knowing that Thomas was being transported across the seas, didn’t want Captain Flint’s wrath enabling Thomas’s freedom where they were most vulnerable.

  
Abigail searched through the documents that were left to see if there were any others that made mention of Thomas Hamilton in Savannah, but all she could find was a somewhat cryptic letter, referring to the transportation of T.H., dated before the first document. She searched through the ones she had already sorted, but could find nothing pertaining to whether Thomas Hamilton was still being held in Savannah, Georgia.

  
Still, it was possible. It was even likely. Swallowing, Abigail came to her decision. She would go there, to this Mr Oglethorpe’s plantation, ascertain whether Lord Hamilton was there, and if so…hopefully she could use her position as Lord Ashe’s daughter and only heir to have him released. She released a breath. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all she had. If Thomas Hamilton was alive, she couldn’t allow him to rot away as a slave in a plantation. She wasn’t her father.

  
She thought about Mr McGraw, wondered if she ought to send word to him. But it seemed an impossibility, what with her every move being watched by her father’s men, and the stories of Captain Flint that were coming thick and fast into ruined Charlestown, of more sackings and murders and pillaging by Captain Flint. Abigail knew enough now not to believe everything she heard about the pirate, but even so…she was sure there was a grain of truth in the rumours. The death (murder, she corrected herself) of Lady Hamilton had clearly sent him over the edge.

  
No, she would find Thomas Hamilton, if she was still alive, because that was something she could do, with the little power that she had. And she would do it only for herself, and for the man who had given her free rein over his library and encouraged her penchant for reading, through which she had discovered her voracious curiosity. And, she hoped, the ability to tell right from wrong. The ability that seemed to be somewhat lacking from both her father and Mr McGraw.

  
Abigail breathed slowly, in and out, feeling peace and calm settle in her, next to excitement and anticipation. She had a plan.

  
  
When she returned to the house in Savannah where her father had sent her to stay safe the next day, clutching papers in her hands, she arrived to a nasty surprise.    
Or rather, she didn't. Everything appeared normal at first, her father's men accommodating if a little condescending and overprotective. It was when she expounded on her plans to go to Oglethorpe’s plantation, in order to organise transportation and guards, that she felt the mood begin to change. 

  
“Abigail,” said the captain of her father's men. “You can't go to this plantation. You must see that.”

  
“And why not?” asked Abigail imperiously, folding her arms. 

  
“It's a dangerous place! Not somewhere a young girl should be!” 

  
“I'm not a young girl,” Abigail said, but it sounded petulant even to her own ears. “That's why I'm asking for guards. I need your help.” Abigail leaned forward, imploring. 

  
“No,” said the man sharply. Then he looked apologetic. “I'm sorry Abigail,” he said. “It's just not possible.”

  
“Fine, then,” she said, standing up. “I'll make my own way there.”

  
“No!” he snapped. “I forbid it.” 

  
“I thought I was in charge here? Since my father is dead, doesn't his authority pass on to me?”

  
“Technically, that's true. But we are also here for your protection, so I won't be afraid to use my authority to prevent you from leaving.”

  
“You'll prevent me?” she asked, trying to hold back the shiver that ran down her spine at the idea of being held prisoner again - by the very men who were supposed to protect her, for Christ’s sake! 

  
“I will,” said the captain, and it was not quite threatening, but it was near enough that Abigail decided not to press the matter any further. 

  
“Very well,” she said. “I will stay here, under your protection.” She kept her tone light, but underneath it she was seething. Who was he, she thought, to try to keep her prisoner for her own protection? She had survived three different pirate crews, what danger did a plantation filled with enslaved noblemen pose compared to that? 

  
  
There was no way in Heaven she was staying here like a bird in a gilded cage when she had come so far to find her freedom in the first place. She didn’t care what the captain or any of her deceased father’s men said – she would get out of here on her own and find Thomas Hamilton, if they were not going to aid her.

  
That night, after dark, she packed her bags with clothes and supplies and made to leave. Leaving the house itself was easy – there was nobody around, no one tried to stop her, even the doors were not locked.

  
However, when she was outside, there was a group of armed men at the gate. Nominally for her protection, she thought, but she had seen enough of men in the past year of her life – from pirates to free men to her own damn father – to know they were not to be trusted. They would turn their weapons against her, if they thought it was within their authority to do so. They might even have the audacity to say it was for her own protection!

  
Silently fuming at these so-called good men her father had surrounded himself with, she decided to check the trees and bushes around the perimeter of the garden, to see if there was any way out there.

  
It was dark, and cold, and damp in the bushes. Abigail pushed through the thick foliage, getting her hair caught on one of the branches. She had to tug her head out of the plant’s grasp, and although she couldn’t see, she was sure she’d left a chunk of hair on there. She wished she’d thought to at least tie her hair back before she had left, but she had been in such a hurry to leave this wretched place. She tripped over a root, landing flat on her face, and for a moment she almost wished she was back in the dungeons in Nassau’s fort. At least there, she’d eventually had a beautiful (and intelligent) heroine come and save her, she thought wildly. Here, there was nobody to save her but herself.   
It was a sobering thought, and she lay there, just breathing and listening to any sign that she might have been discovered. When she had lain there for at least a full minute and heard nothing out of the ordinary, she slowly pulled herself to her feet.

  
What if Thomas wasn’t out there, at the plantation? What if he really was dead, as her father had told Mr McGraw? All the proof she had was one piece of paper, dated five years ago. Even if her father had lied and Thomas Hamilton had been taken to this plantation – which Abigail was beginning to see was very likely – what was to say that he was still there? That he hadn’t died in the interceding years, or made an escape, or that her father had had a change of heart and let him go? If that was the case, what was Abigail even doing this for? To leave the safety and comfort of a house where she would be waited on hand and foot, for a man she had met once as a child, who might not even be out there to be found?

  
Abigail thought all this as she forced her way further and further through the undergrowth, and none of it made her feel any better. Because she had to try, and if her father’s men weren’t going to help her, were going to essentially place her under house arrest, then, well – that made it all the more imperative to try.   
That didn’t make her feel any better about her chances though.

Then the men that she still thought of as her father’s were surrounding her, and she knew that any hope of escaping and finding Thomas Hamilton was better than none at all.   
  
They had to drag her inside, and it took four men, for Abigail bit and scratched and kicked like a madwoman to get free. She was proud of herself for that, although she regretted it immediately when they got inside and they forced laudanum down her throat, effectively knocking her out.

  
When she woke up, she was back in her bedroom, and it was close to dawn, judging by the light outside. She stood up quickly, then regretted it, as she wobbled and stumbled her way to the door, the after-effects of the laudanum making her feel woozy. She tried the door handle. It was locked.

  
She hammered on the door. “Let me out!” she hollered. “LET ME OUT!”

  
She fell forward as the door opened. It was the captain.

  
“Sorry, miss,” he said, and the bastard looked almost smug. “It’s for your own good.”

  
“Well I think that I should have the right to decide whether it’s for my own g-” She was cut off as the man slammed the door in her face. She heard the key turning and the lock click shut again.

  
She walked back to her bed and stared at it for a moment, breathing in and out, not really seeing or feeling anything.

  
Then the reality of her situation hit her, and she threw herself on the bed and gasped out a sob, and another, and another. She cried herself to sleep.

  
  
Most days it was just boring. She stayed in her room, and read, or wrote her diary. She was given meals three times a day, and, if she had behaved, she was allowed to take a walk around the garden, with an escort of guards. Usually she felt nothing.

  
And then there were the days when she felt everything, remembered that she had escaped imprisonment by pirates only to be imprisoned in her own home. Those were black days, and she always felt, when she came out of them, that she had gone a little mad. But then, what was more mad? The days when she felt everything, the injustice of it all, the lack of freedom, the loneliness – or the days when she felt nothing, when she didn’t care at all, when she could be dead for all it mattered to her?

  
  
And then one day, she snapped, and decided enough was enough. She couldn’t keep living like this, barely even able to keep track of the days. She had to get out.   
  
  
The way she eventually found to get out wasn't dignified and it wasn't pretty. The boy was her age, thereabouts, and she thought that in a different time, if she were different, they could even have done this on their wedding night. But the situation is what it is, and that's how Abigail had to justify it to herself. For her own sanity. He let her go, and she was too relieved to regret much of anything. 

  
The next month her bleeding was late, and then didn't come at all. The regret that had been slowly flooding her since she had left that place slowly turned to fear.


	2. James and Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now to see what our favourite boys are up to! And we meet Grace. I really hope you like her, because I've really fallen in love with her while I've been writing.

They had moved to the edge of a small town in Spanish Florida, far away enough from Savannah that they felt reasonably safe from any repercussions from Oglethorpe or the authorities he might call upon to track them down. Still, James thought they ought to be careful, and so they had built a wooden house on the outskirts of the town, and only ventured in to buy supplies or carry out work, James as a carpenter, Thomas as a tutor.  The residents of the town weren’t particularly rich or well-educated, but they wanted their children to be, so Thomas had plenty of work, even if it wasn’t particularly well-paid.

  
“You know,” said Thomas, one evening when he had just returned from a full day of teaching various children their letters and numbers, “someone should set up a school.”   
James looked at him fondly. “I know that look,” he said warningly. “I agree a school would be a good thing for the town, and you would make an excellent teacher, my love,” Thomas smiled at him, pleased, “but leave it to someone else? We’re not so far away from civilization that a school named after you wouldn’t raise suspicions if it were heard of elsewhere.”

  
“I wouldn’t have to name it after myself,” said Thomas. “And anyway, if I did, I would call it the Thomas McGraw school, wouldn’t I?” He grinned and James’s ears went pink. Not long after they had left the plantation, James had proposed they take each other’s names. He had presented it as a way to leave their old names behind them, as well as any questions those names might arouse, even now, even here. But Thomas wasn’t fooled. “I would love to take your name, my truest love,” he said gently, “but you know, I am already married to you, in my heart. I always have been.”  James hadn’t been able to speak for a good few minutes after that, so overcome was he (and was not permitted to speak for a good ten or so after he had regained the ability, for Thomas had taken the opportunity to cover his face in kisses.

  
“Even so,” said James, pulling himself out of the precious memory with difficulty, “I would prefer it if you left it to someone else to come up with.”

  
Thomas sighed. “Very well,” he said, and kissed the knuckles of James’s hands.  “Let’s to bed, my dear,” he said, tired but fond, and so very very glad to have James back in his arms and his bed once more.

  
“To bed,” agreed James, with a particular glint in his eye. Thomas had a feeling that he wasn’t going to get to sleep for a while yet. Not that he minded. Not one bit.

  
  
Thomas was just finishing off his mathematics session with Gregory when there was a knock at the door. Mathematics was not his strongest suit, but he knew enough to be able to teach the basics to children, and Gregory was getting better and better every day. He was not the quickest, by any means, but he worked on his sums slow and steady till he got there, and Thomas only had to help and encourage him along for the most part.

  
“That’ll be my nanny,” said Gregory. He made to jump down from the table then caught Thomas’s eye. “May I go and let her in, Mr McGraw?”

  
Hiding the flutter that he felt in his stomach every time he was addressed by that name, Thomas said, “why don’t you finish that one last sum and I’ll go and answer the door for her?” he asked. Gregory considered this for a moment, then nodded. If he didn’t finish the sum now, he would no doubt be set it for homework, for Mr McGraw was a fair teacher, but insisted on hard work and finishing what you started. “After all,” he would say, “if you can’t finish what you’ve started, then you’ve taken on more than you can chew. It’s far more satisfying to finish a shorter task, than expend all your energies on a long one and never finish.” Gregory could see the logic in that, he supposed.

  
So Thomas stood up and made his way to the door, fumbling for a moment with the locking system before hearing the door click, and swinging it open.

  
Upon seeing who was on the other side, his breath was knocked out of his chest.

  
“Nanny Grace?” he said, in a shocked tone. Childhood memories, some of the only soft ones he had, of Grace tending to a bloody knee, promising to talk to his father about letting him sit at the dinner table, holding him when he cried, rose unbidden to the surface, and he had to close his eyes against the onslaught of his past. When he opened them again, she was still standing there, looking at him with just as much shock and perhaps, just perhaps, the merest trace of recognition, and Thomas thought to himself that, beyond the grey hair and the wrinkles that lined her face, she hadn’t changed at all.

  
“Nobody’s called me that since…” she squinted at him, and Thomas realised that her sight was going, eyes bloodshot and yellowing. “Is that…can it be…young Master Thomas?” she said, looking for all the world like she’d seen a ghost. Thomas tried not to grimace – he saw that look on James’s face too often for it to be a welcome one.

  
“Not so young anymore,” said Thomas, trying to inject a bite of good humour, but he said it with far too much gravity for it to be effective. Yes, he was much older now, almost old, although James was fond of saying that he looked younger every day.

  
Nanny Grace raised her hands and took Thomas’s bearded face in his hands, stroking it in wonder and disbelief. “Can it really be you?” she said, tears forming in her eyes, and Thomas felt his beginning to water too.

  
“It’s me,” he said, his voice shaking, “it’s really me.” I’m me I’m really me I’m still me, I’m Lord Thomas Hamilton and I’m in love with Lieutenant James McGraw and that’s something you’ll never beat or freeze or spin or bleed out of me. The mantra he had repeated so often to himself in Bedlam came back to him so suddenly it made his head spin, and he had to grab on to the doorframe to reassure himself that he was here, this was now, and he was not going back to Bedlam, not ever.

  
Nanny Grace took him in her arms and hugged him tight, and he felt real, and he felt loved, all of him felt loved, from his child self to now, in a way he hadn’t for a very long time. He hugged her back and found himself crying into her shoulder, as though he were a little boy again and his father had devised some particularly cruel punishment for a minor misdemeanour perpetrated by a boy too curious for his own good.

  
By now, Gregory had finished his work and had made his way into the hallway, a fact that Thomas only discovered when he asked, in a tone of voice that suggested he was worried Thomas had gone crazy, “Mr McGraw?”

  
Thomas drew back from Nanny Grace, hastily wiping his streaming eyes and nose on his sleeve. “Sorry, Gregory,” he said. “I just knew your nanny, a very long time ago.”    
She looked at him with crinkly, smiling eyes, not even questioning the fact that Gregory had called him Mr McGraw. After all, she had known his father, perhaps she needed no explanation.

 

  
“Um, I should go,” said Thomas, “but we must meet some time. Do you live in the town?”

  
“Yes,” she said, smiling and leaning forward with a handkerchief to wipe his face. Thomas smirked ruefully, exchanging a glance with Gregory which said, so clearly ‘Nanny,’ with an eye roll full of fondness. “Are you free Friday evening? You could come to my house. I live on Green Street, number 15.”

  
“I am indeed,” he said, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. “It’s a date,” he said with a wink, causing her to chuckle, surprised and pleased, and Thomas felt happiness bubble up in his chest as he left the building. Life had taken so much from him, but now, it seemed, it had seen fit to give back.

  
  
“Hello darling,” said Thomas upon entering their little house. James smiled up at him and turned his face up for a kiss, which Thomas happily bestowed.

  
“You sound chipper,” he remarked, grinning. “Good day?”

  
“It was rather,” said Thomas. “And-” He thought of seeing Nanny Grace again, and a lump rose in his throat. “I saw someone. From my past.”

  
James stood up and gripped his shoulders, looking worried. “Who?” he asked.

  
Thomas shook his head. “Don’t worry, she won’t betray us. As far as I know, she doesn’t even know how I’ve ended up here.  It was my old Nanny.”

  
“From when you were, what, five?” James asked. Thomas had few happy memories from his childhood, but she featured in most of them, so James had heard all about her. “And she remembered you?” 

  
“I remembered her,” said Thomas. “She hasn’t changed a bit.” He found he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “She left when I was six, probably due to my father – I told you how she used to stick up for me, when she could, and obviously he didn’t like that so-” James’s eyes narrowed in anger at the mention of his father, so Thomas cleared his throat and moved on. “But anyway, she’s here, I’ve found her again, James!”

  
James grinned. “I’m happy for you, Thomas,” he said, and leaned in from where he was standing to kiss Thomas’s nose. “Are you planning on seeing her again?”

  
Thomas nodded. “She invited me over to her house for dinner on Friday.” He paused. “And I think you should come too.”

  
“Really?” said James, looking up sharply. “I mean – I know you loved her as a child – but – the two of us – I don’t know if it would be wise.”

  
Thomas scowled. “We don’t have to tell her, if you really don’t want to. Although I expect she’ll guess anyway – after all, she’s the closest thing to a mother that I’ve ever had. But she’ll be happy for me James, I’m sure of it.”

  
James shook his head with a smile. Thomas’s belief in the best of people, even after all that had happened to him, never failed to astonish and humble him. “Happy that you’ve ended up with the most notorious pirate in the New World, you mean?” he said with a grin, and Thomas sighed with relief.

  
“Well, maybe we can save that for a later date,” said Thomas with a wink. All the tension went out of James’s body and he nodded. “Thank you, darling,” he said, kissing James’s forehead. “I know she’ll like you.”

  
“How can you possibly know that?” he asked, privately adding, _most people don’t_ , in his head.

  
“Because you make me happy,” said Thomas, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, and James felt himself melt, letting himself fall into Thomas’s arms and be enveloped by them. Once he had finished burying his face in Thomas’s shoulder and peppering Thomas’s own face with grateful kisses, he straightened up.

  
“Right,” he said, “shall I cook dinner?”

  
Thomas rubbed his hands together. “A delicious dinner cooked by my wonderful, talented husband? I can think of nothing better!”

  
He was ridiculous, but James blushed anyway, and smiled as he went into the kitchen and started putting together their evening meal.

  
  
“Do I look alright?” asked James for the fifth time that evening. He had been incredibly fidgety all night, changing his shirt about three times and driving Thomas up the wall. Now they were outside Grace’s house, and James looked terrified, clutching at his sleeves and chewing his lip.

  
“You look fine, darling,” said Thomas, as patiently as he could. “Dashing, even.”

  
That didn’t seem to help – rather, James clenched his fists tighter around the material of his shirt. “Dashing? No, no, no, I don’t want her to think, I don’t know, I’m some sleazy cad who’s seduced you.”

  
Thomas squeezed his hand, knowing that despite the absurdity of his statement, his words came from a place of real, deep and long-standing fear. “She’ll love you,” he said quietly. “I promise.” He kissed James’s hand. “Are you ready?”

  
Looking a bit green, James swallowed, then gritted his teeth and nodded. Thomas led him to the front door and then knocked. At the last minute, James dropped his hand, flashing an apologetic grin before turning to the slowly opening door.

  
“Thomas!” she said in delight, pulling him down and giving him a kiss on both cheeks. She stood back. “Let me look at you,” she said, taking him in from his slowly greying hair and beard, to his simple clothes and shoes, to his well-built frame. He certainly didn’t have the appearance of a young Lord anymore, but Grace didn’t ask, not yet anyway. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come!”

  
Thomas bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Yes, sorry about that, we, uh, took our time getting ready,” he said, glancing at James, who looked down, embarrassed.   
“But who is this?” she asked, looking at James for the first time – up until now her eyes had only been for Thomas. 

  
“Grace, this is – this is James,” he said, and only James noticed his stumble in introducing him. James held out his hand.

  
“Good to meet you, madam,” he said, putting on his best Navy training voice. Thomas bit back a smile. 

  
“Oh, none of that, dear,” she said, waving a hand. She ignored James’s hand and pulled him into a hug. James let himself be hugged, confused but pleased, and Thomas tried not to laugh. “You must call me Grace.”

  
“Very well,” he said, smiling. “She reminds me of someone,” said James in an undertone to Thomas. Thomas grinned at him.

  
“Come in, come in,” said Grace, shepherding them in and having them sit at her kitchen table.

  
“It’s not what you’ll have been used to in London, of course,” she said to Thomas, “but I hope I can feed you well, at least.”

  
Thomas smiled, a little sadly. “I haven’t been used to that sort of food for over a decade, I’m afraid. I live much more simply nowadays.”

  
Grace cast him a piercing glare, cocking her head in a gesture Thomas recognised as her silently asking after his wellbeing. He nodded in lieu of saying anything, lump in his throat. The last ten years had been hell, obviously, but right here, right now, with his husband and the closest thing he’d ever had to a mother? He couldn’t imagine anywhere else he’d rather be. Certainly not a cold, lifeless house in London, no matter how fancy the food or expensive the furniture.

  
“I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” said James. Grace beamed at him.

  
“Oh yes, James is really the one you’ll have to impress,” said Thomas, nudging his husband. “He’s the cook in the house, and an excellent one at that.”

  
“Oh!” said Grace, looking suitably impressed and making James blush. “You’re taking good care of him, then, son?” she said, raising her eyebrows, making James blush even more.

  
“I try to,” he said, managing to meet her gaze. Thomas sat between them, looking like a child at Christmas.

  
“Well, I hope you’ll enjoy the pie I’ve made, anyway. It’s chicken and ham.”

  
“Sounds delicious,” said James, smiling, relieved that her scrutiny appeared to be over. Thomas took his hand under the table and squeezed it, smiling at him. As Grace was busying herself in the kitchen, James relaxed into Thomas slightly, breathing a sigh of relief.

  
“You’re doing wonderfully,” Thomas whispered reassuringly. “She loves you already.”

  
“Do you think?” said James. Thomas nodded, happily, and James tried to marshal his anxious thoughts. Thomas was right, it was all going wonderfully, the pie smelled delicious, and Grace was as lovely and motherly as Thomas said. “She wants to know that I’m taking good care of you,” he stated, neutrally. Then he smiled. “I like her.”

  
“Good,” said Thomas, looking satisfied. “And you do take good care of me, you know.”

  
James nodded. He tried his best, but he always felt it was never enough, could never be enough, to make up for the last ten years. 

  
Thomas seemed to read his thoughts, for his brow furrowed, and he kissed James’s forehead. “You do, you know. I couldn’t ask for anything more, honestly, James. You help me more than you know.”

  
James nodded, not quite believing it, but he tried for a smile, although it probably came out as more of a grimace. They didn’t have time to debate the subject further, however, for just then Grace announced that dinner was ready.

  
Once they had been given large portions of pie and potatoes, Grace turned to Thomas. “So, what brings you to the New World then, Master Thomas?”

  
Thomas winced. “Just Thomas, please, Nanny,” he said, stalling for time. He sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “It’s a long story,” he said.

  
She smiled slightly. “If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to, dear,” she said, patting his arm.

  
Thomas shook his head. “It’s not that,” he said. He looked up at her, chin resting on his hands, “it’s just too painful.”

  
She nodded grimly. “Your father had something to do with it, I gather?”

  
Thomas laughed bitterly, feeling James tense behind him. “Everything to do with it, one might say.”

  
“Oh Thomas, I’m so sorry,” said the old woman, almost in tears. “I never should have left you with him. But he made me leave, without a reference, and told me if I tried for work in the country, my employers would hear all manner of unpleasant things about my behaviour in this post. All for defending you.” She shook her head. “So I left to find work in the New World.”

  
“It’s not your fault, Grace,” said Thomas, squeezing her hand. “My father was a bastard to everyone, especially to anyone who made me happy.” He closed his eyes, trying to will away the hurt and resentment he still felt towards his father. He felt James’s hand stroke his knee under the table. “Anyway, I’m free of him now.” He smiled gratefully at James, who met his eyes only for a moment, before he turned away embarrassed.

  
“Well, I can’t pretend I’m sorry,” said Grace. James snorted, and Thomas started laughing from the sheer joy of it, from being alive and loved and reunited with the people from whom his father had tried to separate him, while his father was dead and buried at the bottom of the sea. When he recovered, James and Grace were both smiling at him fondly, and he felt full of light and warmth.

  
“So, you’re working as a tutor, Gregory tells me,” said Grace, changing the subject.

  
Thomas nodded. “It doesn’t pay that much, but that’s not why I do it. There are so many children here lacking a decent education, lacking any education, because their parents can’t afford it.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I do what I can. James earns most of our money with his carpentry skills. Built half our house as well.” He grinned at James, enamoured as always with his husband’s skills.

  
“Is that so?” asked Grace, and James blushed.

  
“It is,” he admitted.

  
“And does James have a surname?” she asked him playfully.

  
James tensed and looked at Thomas, who nodded. “Hamilton,” he said, his voice strangled, and then cleared his throat. “My name is James Hamilton,” he said more confidently.   
“Really?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “And McGraw?” she said, looking at Thomas.

  
“Is James’s – well, for a want of a better word – maiden name,” said Thomas, lips quirking of their own accord even as he waited with bated breath for Grace’s reaction.   
Grace’s eyebrows were so high that they were almost in her hairline. “So the two of you are…”

  
“Married, yes,” said James, impatiently, unable to bear the tension of waiting for Grace’s reaction. “Do you have a problem with that?” The unspoken challenge was there, in the set of his chin, in the way he leaned closer to Thomas, eyes looking piercingly at Grace.

  
Grace licked her lips, and then broke his gaze, to look at Thomas. “He really is something, isn’t he, Thomas.” Thomas was relieved to see a gentle smile on her lips.

  
Thomas grinned. “The first time I kissed him, it was right after he’d defended me in front of my father, and kicked him out of the house,” he told her, completely unabashed.

  
“Was it really?” said Grace, wonderingly, turning to look at James, who looked equal parts confused and embarrassed. “Well, it seems we have something in common, Mr Hamilton,” she said, the use of his married name causing James’s cheeks to redden, “although you managed to do something I never could.”

  
Eventually recovering himself, James nodded, smiled a little. “It was my privilege,” he said, quiet and hoarse, gazing at Thomas in adoration.

  
“You’ve got yourself a good one there,” she said, patting Thomas’s arm. “I’m happy for you.”

  
Thomas pulled himself away from gazing into James’s eyes to smile at her. “I do. I’m glad you think so. It- hasn’t been an easy road for us.”

  
James snorted. “That’s the understatement of the century.”

  
“Or at least the last ten years,” said Thomas, earning a rueful smile from James.

  
Grace looked at them sadly but said nothing, asked nothing, for which Thomas, for one, was thankful. He just wanted one person who looked at him and didn’t see the weight of the past ten years. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her to know, but that he couldn’t bear for it to be dragged out again, not on such a peaceful evening. He caught Grace’s eye and she smiled at him, and he smiled back before quickly turning his attention to his somewhat neglected pie and potatoes. James was digging into them with gusto beside him.

  
“This is very good, Grace,” James said through a mouthful of potatoes. Thomas sniggered next to him.

  
“Thank you, sweetheart,” said Grace genially. James grinned at her.

  
When they left, it was with hugs and kisses and effusiveness, with promises to see each other soon.

  
“You must come over to ours,” said James, the picture of a perfect gentleman, and Thomas hid a smile. “I’ll cook.”

  
“I’ll look forward to that,” said Grace. “Send me a message when you’re free.” This was mostly directed at Thomas, who she then hugged tight to her and kissed on the cheek.   
“I’m so glad I’ve found you, darling boy,” she whispered in his ear, “so don’t try and wriggle your way out of this!” She tapped his nose fondly before letting him go.

  
Thomas grinned. “Of course not, Nanny,” he said cheekily.

  
James shook his head fondly at his husband, and smiled at her.

  
“It was lovely to meet you, James,” she said, taking the hand he offered, and then surprising him by pulling him into a hug.

  
James nodded bumpily, awkward but pleased. “Likewise,” he rumbled, not looking at her but smiling all the same.

  
She nodded, contented. “Goodbye, boys!”

  
After a few more farewells, they left down the little garden path and out onto the street.

  
  
James smiled happily up at Thomas. “That went well,” he said quietly.

  
Thomas took James by the hand, spun him under his arm like a dancer. “It did, rather, didn’t it,” said Thomas, trying to keep the grin from bursting off his face.

  
And then they were laughing and cuddling each other, there in the street, crying into each other’s shoulders even as they laughed: tears of happiness for Grace’s acceptance and love, tears of bitterness that they had found such a thing from so few others.

  
A dog barked somewhere up the street and they broke apart, quickly, looking around. Nobody seemed to be about, but better safe than sorry, James thought. Not everyone was as accepting as Grace.

  
“Let’s go home,” he murmured in Thomas’s ear.

  
Thomas nodded in emphatic agreement, breathing deep, slowing his heart rate down from where it had jumped to.

  
  
They didn’t see Grace the next week; there had been a rather big storm with the arrival of autumn, and James was busy fixing various things that had broken, on top of his regular carpentry. Thomas had a full schedule of tutoring, as parents seemed to have decided that the start of autumn was the perfect time to get a tutor.

  
In fact, they felt like they barely saw each other that week, Thomas coming in exhausted from a full day of tutoring, only to find James rushing off urgently to repair something. James working through the day and sometimes well into the night to try and keep up with the workload. He was a skilled carpenter, which brought in a lot of customers and therefore plenty of money, but the downside of that was all the work that piled up at busy times.

  
One night, Thomas caught James by the arms, just as he was rushing out to his shed again to fix a table he had promised to get done for old Mr Hughes for tomorrow.   
“James,” said Thomas, “can you just leave it for tonight? I’ve barely seen you all week.” He pouted.

  
James dithered. “I know, Thomas, I- God, I want to but- I promised I’d have it done by tomorrow, and you know Mr Hughes…”

  
Thomas did know. He was the grandfather of one of his students, and one of the most belligerent, narrow-minded, ill-tempered men Thomas had ever met (excluding, perhaps, his father). He nodded. “But you’re a good carpenter, you can get it done tomorrow. Your workload must be starting to slow down now, surely?”

  
“A little,” James admitted. “But that’s why I want to catch up with it now.”

  
“Listen,” said Thomas, gripping James’s arms a little tighter. James’s eyes shot to his. “The worst that will happen if you stay is you lose the old bastard as a client. The worst that will happen if you go, is that I’ll be very sad and lonely and missing you.” Thomas gave James his best sad, wide eyes, secretly delighted when he saw James buckle.

  
“Fine,” he huffed, grinning ruefully at Thomas. “I’ll stay.” He raised his eyebrows. “What did you have planned?”

  
Thomas wiggled his eyebrows in answer. “Oh, plenty, my love.”

  
James grinned and then pressed him up against the wall, crowding him. He pressed their crotches together and Thomas let out a moan. He bit James’s next and James whimpered, giving Thomas the chance to push him away slightly and scoop him up in his arms, pulling him in close to his body as he took them both into the bedroom.   
James was chuckling as Thomas dumped him unceremoniously on the bed. “You know it’s not fair when you do that,” James protested half-heartedly.

  
“What?” said Thomas, already halfway out of his shirt. “Lift you up in my big strong arms?” He shrugged out of his shirt completely, showing said arms off, grinning lecherously at James.

  
James flopped back on the bed, groaning. “Come here to me, darling.”

  
Thomas was happy to oblige. He crawled on top of James, kissing him senseless, rubbing his crotch against James’s so he could feel how hard he was already, even through their trousers. 

  
James growled and flipped Thomas onto his back, kissing down his body. “I need to get you out of these trousers,” he said, unbuttoning them slowly and drawing Thomas out. Thomas laid back and sighed as James nosed at the hair around his cock, finally deigning to taste just the tip with his tongue.

  
“J-James,” Thomas whimpered. He was already desperate, thought James in awe, as he ducked down to suck Thomas’s balls into his mouth. Thomas’s breathing harshened above him and James grinned up at him, before bobbing his head and swallowing him down halfway. Thomas bucked up against his mouth, eyes squeezed shut, hands fisted in the sheets. James bobbed his head up and down, until Thomas leaned forward and gripped his growing hair tight, so James had no choice but to pull away, feeling himself getting even stiffer at the feel of Thomas’s hard grip on his hair. Thomas pulled him up by the hair to kiss him messily, before pulling him back again.

  
“James,” he said in a ravished voice. “I need you inside me.” James nodded eagerly, making to roll off the bed and fetch the oil from the bedside drawer where they kept it, but Thomas stopped him (with one hand on his chest, and Christ did James love how strong he was now) and James looked up in lust-filled confusion. “I- um-,” said Thomas, and then took James’s hand and, in lieu of something to say, guided his finger to his arsehole. It was already slick and, as James explored, opened already by Thomas’s fingers, in anticipation.

  
James looked up at Thomas with raised eyebrows. His husband was a little pink with embarrassment, but also looked bloody pleased with himself.

  
“Couldn’t wait?” James said conversationally, while swirling his fingers through the slick of Thomas’s hole.

  
“I need you, James. It’s been far too long.” He pushed back against James’s finger, trying to impale himself on it.

  
“You’re insatiable,” said James, fondly. “It’s been, what, a week?”

  
“Ten years, James,” said Thomas earnestly. “Ten years I went without you. Even a week is too long.”

  
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said James, kissing him on the nose, at the same time finding his hand and squeezing it. “You must have been pretty confident of persuading me, preparing yourself for me like this,” said James, trying not to rut against the bed at the thought of Thomas in here, with his fingers in his arse, preparing himself for James.

  
“I flatter myself that I’m pretty good at persuading you,” said Thomas, rutting against James shamelessly. “Although,” he said with a grin, “I thought you might have taken more persuading.”

  
James reddened slightly. “I-” He shook his head wordlessly, reaching down and taking both of their cocks in hand, pulling on them both at once. They both groaned at the sensation.

  
“James-” said Thomas warningly.

  
James nodded. “How do you want me?” he asked.

  
Thomas smiled at him almost angelically. “I want to ride you,” he said, simply.

  
James nodded vigorously, very amenable to the idea. He unbuttoned his trousers and shoved them down, kicking them off the end of the bed, lying back against the pillows. Thomas straddled him and started to unbutton his shirt, but James’s hands stopped him of his own accord.

  
Thomas looked up sharply, not continuing his journey down James’s chest, even though James had now removed his hands and was looking away, embarrassed. “What is it?” he asked, brow furrowing.

  
“It’s just-” James sighed, biting his lip. “My stomach,” he said eventually, not looking at Thomas, “it’s getting rather...large.” He coloured. “I don’t want you to be put off,” he muttered.

  
“Oh James,” he said affectionately, leaning forward to kiss his husband. “You could never put me off,” he said, but James just buried his head in the pillow. “Honestly, James,” said Thomas, sitting back on his haunches, stroking his cock slowly. “If you don’t want to remove your shirt, you don’t have to. But for me,” He put a gentle hand behind James’s head, raising it up so he had to look at Thomas, “you have no idea just how attractive I find your belly.”

  
James groaned and surged forward to kiss Thomas, eyes closed, cock pressing insistently against his arse. “Alright,” he said, slightly breathlessly. “Go ahead.”

  
Thomas leaned forward eagerly to undo the rest of the buttons on James’s shirt, curling over to kiss his delightful belly, making James giggle and blush. Thomas leaned forward again and whispered hotly in his ear, “I can’t wait to see how it wobbles and shakes as I ride you.”

  
James bit back a groan. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he said, voice thick with lust.

  
Thomas grinned, and then reached back to pull his cheeks apart, lowering himself slowly onto James’s jutting cock. 

  
They both moaned as they came together, James’s cock filling Thomas almost to bursting, even with his previous preparation.  Thomas just sat there for a moment, adjusting to James’s size within him, then he twisted his hips slightly. They both groaned, and Thomas’s cock jumped, getting impossibly harder.

  
“Fuck, James,” said Thomas, starting to move up and down on top of James, lifting up his hips and then reimpaling himself on James’s dick. “You’re so hot and hard and big inside me, oh-!” He adjusted his angled slightly so James’s cock was hitting his prostate each time, every thrust releasing a flood of pure bliss across Thomas’s nerves. James was gently thrusting his hips up, helping Thomas along, and Thomas gazed down on his lover, belly shaking magnificently with the effort, and sighed obscenely.

  
“God, I am not going to last,” he said, and James looked up at him, only to see Thomas’s eyes roaming up and down his body, getting caught on his stomach. James smirked.   
“Don’t hold back, my love,” he said, thrusting harder, and they crashed together, again and again, eventually losing their rhythm and stuttering into orgasm. Thomas came first, all over James’s beautiful body, barely even pausing before he continued to ride James into orgasm just a few thrusts later.

  
Thomas flopped forward onto James, his softening dick still inside him, breathing hard. He kissed his way up James’s chest, to his chin and finally his lips. “I love you,” he whispered into them.

  
James smiled into the kiss. “I love you too,” he said, pulling Thomas’s ear into his mouth and sucking at it. “You’re so beautiful when you come, you know that don’t you?”   
Thomas grinned, a little self-consciously. He sat back, letting James’s cock slip out of him, at which James groaned. “Even now?” he said uncertainly.

  
“Forever and always,” promised James, sitting up and pulling Thomas into his arms. Thomas let himself be cuddled, feeling warm and safe and marvelling over it, that he could feel this way still, after all this time, when he’d been so certain he would never feel either of those things again. Certainly never feel James’s arms around him again...life did produce miracles, sometimes, he thought.

  
He shared the thought with James, who scoffed. “If us being brought back together was an act of God, then it was merely him righting a wrong on His Earth. About time too,” James huffed. “Soon I would have been too old and ugly for even you to look past my flaws.”

  
Thomas shook his head, smiling. He nuzzled James’s neck and said, “I could never find you unattractive, my love. I’ll be making love to you when we’re ninety.”

  
This surprised a laugh out of James. “Ninety? You think we’ll live that long?”

  
“I certainly hope so,” said Thomas, still buried in James’s neck. “I want to see what you look like all wrinkly and grey.”

  
James tilted Thomas’s chin up to see him. “You’ll never be anything less than beautiful,” he whispered reverently, and Thomas, pleased, buried his face in James’s tummy again, alternately kissing and nuzzling and blowing raspberries, making James giggle like a child.

  
“You are a ridiculous man, you know that, Thomas?”

  
“Mmm yes, it’s why you fell for me,” he agreed.

  
James shrugged. “Can’t argue with that,” he said. If only his former crew could see him now, he thought with amusement and only the slightest touch of bitterness, and he fell asleep there, with Thomas’s head cushioned on the softness of his belly.

  
  
James awoke perhaps two hours later with the realisation that he no longer had a warm Thomas lying atop him, acting as blanket and hot water bottle. Groaning, he stretched and called out, “Thomas!”

  
He listened for Thomas’s answering call, but when all he heard from the other room was heavy breathing and possibly muffled sobbing, he practically jumped out of bed, heedless of the cold, and ran into the other room.

  
“Thomas,” he said softly, seeing his husband curled up in a ball on the floor. He knelt down beside him. “Thomas, what’s wrong?” Thomas looked up and stared at him, unseeing, so James took a deep breath, forcing himself not to panic, and said, “I’ll make some tea.”

  
Once he had made tea for the two of them, his black and strong, Thomas’s with milk and two spoonfuls of honey, he placed it in front of him and sat next to Thomas, careful not to touch him without his permission.

  
Thomas picked up the tea almost automatically and took a sip, and then another. “It’s sweet,” he said.

  
“Too sweet?” asked James, anxiously.

  
“No, I was worried there would be laudanum in it but - it’s not bitter.”

  
James shook his head, tiredly. “No, Thomas. It’s James, remember. I’d never put laudanum in your tea. We don’t keep it in the house, remember? When I was ill, you had to go to the apothecary, and you threw it out after I recovered?”

  
Thomas’s eyes seemed to slide back into focus, and he visibly calmed. “Yes. Yes. I remember.” He looked at James properly for the first time. “Oh James, I am so sorry.” He set to weeping again, and that just would not do. James tentatively wrapped his arms around Thomas’s shoulders, and when Thomas leaned his head on James’s shoulder, held him tighter, letting him cry into his bare chest.

  
“Are you naked?” he asked, once the sobs had subsided into an occasional hiccup.

  
“Yes,” James said, laughing. “Since that’s how I fell asleep.”

  
Thomas looked concerned. “Did I wake you?”

  
“No,” said James firmly. “I was cold.”

  
Thomas seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “Sorry,” he said.

  
“Thomas.” James leaned forward urgently. “You have no need to apologise. You ought to wake me, if you need me, if you’re upset. That’s what I’m here for.”

  
In reply, Thomas leaned his forehead against James’s. “Thank you,” he whispered. “It’s just...so hard. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

  
James chuckled wetly, mostly to keep himself from crying. “Well, that just doesn’t make any sense, because this is part of you. It’s part of being with you, and I want all of you, Thomas, the broken, fucked up parts as well.”

  
Thomas snorted, looking down at their laps. “Really?” he asked.

  
James sighed. “Sweetheart. If you can accept me for all that I am and have been these past ten years, what makes you think I can’t do the same for you?”

  
Thomas shook his frustratedly. “It’s not the same!” he exclaimed.

  
James took his hands in his, raised his eyebrows. “Why not?”

  
“Because this - what you saw just then - that wasn’t me. That’s not any version of me. I lost myself for so long, and sometimes I’m scared I’ll never be fully myself again.” And now he was crying again. He wiped away the tears, angrily.

  
“My darling,” said James, taking Thomas’s hands from his face and wiping the tears away himself with his thumbs. Thomas looked up at him, eyes big and blue and wondering. “You don’t have to be the same as you were to be yourself. They took so much from you, I know that. And you’re allowed to hate them for that. Just- don’t hate yourself.”

  
“Sometimes I can’t stop hating myself,” Thomas said in a whisper. “Sometimes it’s all that I am.”

  
James closed his eyes in pain, but pressed their foreheads together again. “Then, my love,” he said, stroking Thomas’s thumb, “let me love you anyway. Can you do that?”

  
Thomas nodded, falling into James’s arms, crying into his shoulder, but they were tears of relief this time, of catharsis. Eventually, James managed to scoop both of them up and take them back to bed, where they snuggled under the blankets and alternately slept and spoke in whispers until morning came.

  
  
“We should send a message to Grace,” James said, one evening later that week.

  
Thomas hummed. To anyone else it might have sounded like agreement, but James knew it as a sign that Thomas was only half-listening.

  
“Thomas, did you hear me?”

  
Thomas sighed, not looking up from the pages of his book. “You said we should send a message to Grace,” he repeated, sounding almost uninterested.

  
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Don’t you want to?”

  
Thomas closed his eyes, closed the book and set it aside. “It’s just,” he said, his eyes still closed, “I don’t want her to see how we live.”

  
Now James was confused. “What?” he asked.

  
Thomas’s eyes snapped open. “The last time I saw her at home, in England, I was living in my father’s house. I just- I don’t want her to see how far I’ve fallen and start asking why.”

  
“Thomas,” said James patiently, “she knows we don’t live like Lords here. She doesn’t love you for your title, she loves you because you’re a good person.”

  
“You don’t understand,” Thomas bit out.

  
“I do. You don’t want her to ask what happened, how you ended up here, in this house, living with a mere carpenter.” James couldn’t seem to help the bitterness in his voice - that implication still stung, even though he thought they were both over the class divide between them, had been over it for a long time - hell, it had never even seemed to matter to Thomas. That was when he had it, though, the demon in James’s head added caustically. He was not cruel or stupid enough to mention the fact that he had buried an obscene amount of gold in a place only he knew - this was not the time. “If she does try to ask, we can deflect it, tell her we don’t want to talk about it. Or I can tell her, if you can’t bear to.”

  
Thomas shook his head. “I just don’t want to.”

  
“Don’t want to what? Tell her? Or have her over here?” James was trying not to let his temper get the better of him, but it got out of hand so quickly these days, especially when Thomas was upset or angry and he didn’t understand why. Goddammit, he wanted to understand why.

  
“Both. Either.” Thomas’s eyes closed again and he started crying, tears escaping from his eyes even as he kneaded them back with his hands.

  
“God, Thomas, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” said James, running his hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

  
Thomas shook his head. “It’s not you. It’s-” He cut himself off, breath hissing through his teeth into nothingness.

  
“What is it?” he said gently, perching on the arm of Thomas’s chair.

  
Thomas shook his head, burying his face in James’s shirt. James stroked his hair soothingly. Just when James thought the conversation was over, he spoke.   
“I was teaching a boy today - Malcolm, did I ever talk about him?” James shook his head, although Thomas couldn’t see. “Anyway, his father came home early, and asked if he’d learned his multiplication tables yet, and when I explained that no, we were working through them and he’d learned up to the six times table, his father threatened to beat him if he hadn’t learned all of them by the time I left.”

  
“Oh, Thomas,” James said.

  
“As you can imagine, I was nearly as frantic as the boy. I should have stood up to the man right then and there but - I was paralysed with fear, and I don’t know if it would have made any difference.” His breath hitched. “Anyway, our combined anxieties didn’t do us any favours, but I promised the boy that I would speak to his father before I left, explain why what he was asking was impossible.”

  
“What did you say to him?”

  
“I told him we were working through the tables at a good pace, but his son could hardly be expected to know them all yet. He didn’t like that.” Thomas laughed darkly. “He said ‘are you saying my son’s stupid?’ and I told him no, that was most certainly not what I was saying, but that if he had to punish anyone, he ought to punish me, for failing to teach his son to the standard he wanted.” Thomas’s voice was dripping with sarcasm but he was also shaking.

  
“He didn’t lay a finger on you, did he?” he asked dangerously, hands curling into fists of their own accord.

  
“No,” Thomas laughed weakly. “I think he thought better of it, seeing as I’m too heads taller than him and probably twice as strong.” There was the tiniest touch of pride in his voice that disappeared altogether when he spoke next. “He told me that I was also to blame, and if his son didn’t improve, then he’d not be paying me anymore. But then he said,” Thomas’s voice shook, “that he was Malcolm’s father and would punish him as he saw fit.” His lip wobbled.

  
“Thomas,” said James helplessly.

  
“Then I left, but I- I heard it start, as I stood outside. I heard him hit his son. And I just- walked away. I did nothing.” The self-loathing dripped from his tone and James didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to say.

  
“Thomas,” he said, not knowing what he was going to say, but he had to try something.

  
“What kind of person am I?” he asked. “To walk away from a boy being beaten like that. Like I was. How will that boy look at me, next time I see him?”   
“Thomas-”

  
“And then I thought about Grace, all the times she protected me from my father, let me hide in her room, confronted him for me-”

  
“And she was given the sack for it,” finished James. “Thomas I- I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling. But you did all you could do. Grace wouldn’t judge you for it. I’m sure even the boy wouldn’t begrudge you for it. It’s probably more than most people would do.”

  
“Then most people are wrong!” said Thomas fiercely. He started scratching his face, ostensibly for and itch but he did it again and again and again, until James had to grip his hands hard to stop him. They struggled for a minute, Thomas looking mutinous, James firm, but eventually Thomas relaxed in his grip. “That little boy deserved better.”

  
“Malcolm?” asked James quietly. “Or you?”

  
Thomas looked up at him, face reddened with scratches, eyes watery and smudged with tears, lower lip worrying between his teeth. “If I can’t make a difference to boys who suffered like me, then what was the point in my suffering?”

  
James just shook his head. “You- you don’t have to be a better person because you suffered at your father’s hands. It- I don’t think it works like that.”

  
“I just feel so powerless,” Thomas mumbled. “I never wanted to feel that way again.”

  
James kissed the top of his head, very gently. “I think you need to talk to Grace,” he said.

  
Thomas shrugged. “Maybe,” he admitted.

  
  
Grace came over two nights later. Thomas had been sitting in the window with a book open on his lap while James had been cooking, but he hadn’t been reading. In fact, James was fairly sure Thomas’s mind was somewhere else entirely.

  
He tried to carry on as normal. Sometimes Thomas went off in his head and there was little James could do about it - sometimes it did more harm than good to try and snap him out of it. Anyway, he had the dinner to focus on - although Grace had seemed to like him, had been accepting - more than accepting - of James and Thomas’s relationship, James was still nervous. He wanted to impress her, show her that he was good enough for Thomas (even though he didn’t believe that himself half the time).

  
When the knock at the door came just after seven, Thomas jumped in his chair, and then rose slowly, purposefully, to get the door.

  
He looked back at James before opening it.

  
“We can tell her as much or as little as you want,” James reminded him. “We don’t have to say anything at all, if you change your mind.”

  
Thomas nodded at him and, taking a deep breath, opened the door.

  
Grace enveloped him in a hug and he returned it gratefully, pulling back to show her into the house.

  
“And where’s your James?” she asked, teasingly, and Thomas saw James turn red out of the corner of his eye, and grinned.

  
“He’s been slaving away in the kitchen to impress you,” said Thomas, winking at her.

  
“Oh, well, there was no need,” she blustered, but James thought she secretly looked rather pleased. He came forward, shaking his head fondly at his husband, and bent to kiss her on the cheek.

  
“Lovely to see you again, Grace,” he rumbled, and she batted her eyelashes at him, before stepping back.

  
“Well, aren’t you two a picture of domestic bliss?” she said, taking in James in his apron and rolled up sleeves, Thomas in his socks, with his book still in hand. They both blushed.

  
“Grace, why don’t I take you into the dining room,” he said, sharing a look with James.

  
James nodded. “Yes, I’ll just finish off the meal.”

  
Grace seemed to sense the change in mood, for she just nodded and followed Thomas into the next room. James focused on checking the lamb, bringing it out to rest, and making the gravy, trying not to listen to the voices on the other side of the door.

  
Eventually, apprehensively, he knocked on the thick wood and entered.  Thomas and Grace were sitting next to each other, hand in hand, tears spilling down both their faces. Thomas looked up at James and managed a watery smile through his tears, for which James breathed a sigh of relief.

  
Grace looked up then and noticed James, who tensed slightly at her gaze. She stood up and took him in her arms. “James, my dear, I am so sorry at what they did to you - to both of you. And to Miranda as well.” James felt the sinking in his stomach that accompanied every mention of Miranda. “I wish I could have met her.”

  
James felt the old self-loathing come over him then - he seemed unable to let go of it, no matter how many times Thomas asked him to. “I should have done more to save her - to save both of them,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.” He directed this at Thomas, too, even though he knew Thomas had forgiven him a thousand times over, promised that James had his forgiveness a thousand times more, even though he assured James that he did not need it. Thomas shook his head just slightly, granting him forgiveness yet again.

  
“Nonsense!” Grace said. “You were put in an impossible situation, all of you. My God, if I could get my hands on that man-”

  
“Fortunately, James has already taken care of that,” said Thomas with a slight smirk. Ah yes. That was the one thing Thomas had refused to grant him forgiveness for. Had thanked him for it, in fact. Profusely.

  
Grace looked at him, a hardness in her eyes, and suddenly James knew where Thomas got his steeliness from. “Yes. You did the world a great favour, getting rid of him.” Thomas nodded in sharp agreement.

  
“The two of you would make excellent pirates,” he said, only half in-jest. Thomas sniggered.

  
Grace smiled up at him, then took a handkerchief from her pocket. “Don’t mind me,” she said, mopping at her eyes, “I’m an old lady now, I’m allowed some emotions.”   
“Of course you are Grace,” said Thomas, only to be attacked by Grace with the handkerchief.

  
“Blow,” she said, and Thomas blew his nose, raising an eyebrow at James, daring him to say something.

  
“I’ll serve the lamb, shall I?” he said.

  
He did, and it was delicious. Grace exclaimed it a triumph, and Thomas said that it was better than most any meal he had ever had in his father’s house, and James heard the apology in his tone. He felt for his hand under the table and stroked his thumb.

  
They were so jovial after lifting the burden of truth upon their shoulders that the wine flowed almost as much as the conversation, and the knocking at the door was only noticed when it had turned to banging.

  
They all looked at each other. James stood up. “Probably someone’s table is broken or something,” he said with a grin, and exited the dining room.

  
He opened the door and almost thought she was an apparition at first.

“Abigail?” he said.

Her teeth were chattering from the rain outside. “M-mr - Mcgraw,” she said, and then collapsed into his arms.   



	3. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail, James, Thomas and Grace - how they learn to struggle, live and love together.

James brought her into the spare bedroom and lit the fire, and then went back to the dining room.

“Who was it?” asked Thomas, raising his eyebrows. 

“Abigail,” said James in a hushed voice.

“Abigail?” Thomas repeated in disbelief. James nodded. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, where is she now?”

“She collapsed on me. I put her in the spare bedroom.”

“She collapsed? Well, is she alright?”

James just shook his head, at a loss.

“Abigail?” asked Grace. “As in Abigail Ashe?”

“Yes.”

“Brown hair?”

“Yes, why, how did you-?” He looked over his shoulder. “Oh.”

“Abigail!” exclaimed Thomas. “Are you alright?”

“Are you Thomas Hamilton?” she asked.

Thomas nodded.

“Thank God, thank God,” she said, rushing to him and embracing him, much to Thomas’s surprise. “I went to the plantation, intending to free you, but I was too late and- I thought you might have died, but then there was a rumour, that two men set fire to the plantation and escaped, and I thought it must be you two but-” She seemed on the verge of tears again, and Thomas took the opportunity to manoeuvre her into a chair. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve been searching for weeks, and- I didn’t know what else to do if I couldn’t find you, and- I-” She broke down in sobs, then, and Grace moved behind her, patting her shoulder comfortingly. 

“There, there, it’s alright, dear, you’re here now,” she said soothingly. “Are you hungry, my love?” Abigail nodded. “More lamb, James?” she asked, and James nodded, moving into action, instead of standing there not knowing what the hell to do.

Thomas still didn’t know quite what to do with himself. “How did you find us?” he asked, a little too sharply, suddenly worried that Oglethorpe would be able to track them down, but then he winced at his tone. Abigail looked up at him.

“I’ve been searching every town between here and Savannah, asking after two men fitting your description.” Thomas’s features tensed, and Abigail must have seen it for she said, “I’m sorry, I just didn’t know what else to do.”

“Of course,” said Thomas, immediately feeling guilty. He patted Abigail’s hand awkwardly. “Of course you should have come to us.”

“Thank you,” Abigail whispered. Then she looked up at Nanny Grace on the other side of her. “Who are you?” she asked.

Grace smiled. “I’m Grace. I used to be Thomas’s nanny when he was a little boy.”

“Oh!” she said. “Then maybe- maybe you can help me too.”

“I can?” asked Grace.

“Yes. You see-” But her speech was cut off as James entered the room again, with leftover lamb and vegetables.

“I think it’s still hot,” said James, attempting a smile.

Abigail nodded jerkily, gaze jumping to and quickly away from him. His features went blank.

“I- uh- I’ll just go and check on the fire,” he said, apropos of nothing, and he felt Thomas’s eyes follow him out of the room.

Abigail looked up at Thomas. “I don’t want to talk to Mr McGraw at the moment,” she said, apologetically. “I just- I don’t feel ready.”

Thomas bit his lip but nodded. “Eat your lamb,” he said.

“Please thank him for me, though,” she said hurriedly, and Thomas had to smile. He rose up and exited the room without another word, leaving Abigail in the capable hands of Grace. 

James was still waiting outside, and when Thomas exited he looked up at him, stricken. Thomas took him in his arms, wordlessly, running his hands through James's hair. 

He kissed his hair. “Let's go into our room.” Thomas leant down to look into his eyes and James nodded against his forehead. He led him by the hand into their room and sat James on the bed. 

“Did you hear, then?” he asked. 

James nodded, breathing in and out, sighing. “She doesn't want to talk to me.” He pressed his knuckles against his eyes. “I should have known this would happen.”

This startled a laugh out of Thomas. “How should you have known?” he asked. 

“I killed her father. And set fire to her home. She probably hates me.” 

Thomas shook his head seriously. “Of course she doesn't hate you. She told me to thank you.”

James's eyebrows rose towards his hairline. “Thank me? What for?”

“For the lamb, I assume. And for bringing her in.”

James snorted, but Thomas could see the moisture in his eyes. He grasped his husband's hand. “She'll get used to you,” he said reassuringly, “she just needs time.”

Thomas stroked his thumb. James nodded although he didn't look convinced. 

 

In the end, somehow, it was James she told first. She didn't know why - she hadn't even talked to him since she had arrived, telling Thomas - he had insisted she called them by their Christian names - that she just couldn't bear it. Although that was technically true, she really felt she needed to talk to James, no matter how painful that would be. But not yet. 

She hadn't told Grace about her condition, although she had considered it, mostly because she didn't know who she was, nor how she would react. She hadn't told Thomas for much the same reason; although she had heard much about him, and spent so long looking for him, the fact remained that she didn't know him all that well - he was merely a man she had met once as a child, and considering the delicacy of the subject, she hadn't wanted to bring that fact up when telling him, and couldn't seem to find the words anyway. 

Her first choice would have been Miranda, but of course, she was dead. So Mr McGraw - James, Abigail corrected herself - it was. 

She chose a time when it was just the two of them in the house. Thomas was out tutoring, but James had stayed at home, working on various commissions in the garden shed. Abigail heard him come into the kitchen for a cup of tea. She stood before her bedroom door, took a deep breath, and stepped out. 

James looked up when he heard her approach in surprise - she had mostly avoided him since her arrival. He flashed her a tentative smile but then returned his focus to the tea.    
She took another deep breath. “James,” she said, the Christian name sounding strange on her tongue. He looked up at her again, inquisitive, but almost scared, and Abigail found herself strongly reminded of him as she had first met him - Dread Pirate Captain Flint, approaching her like she was a scared animal who might lash out if he made any sudden movements. The memory made her smile in spite of herself. 

“What is it?” he asked kindly, looking more bemused now than worried. Abigail could hardly believe that this was the same man who had set fire to Charlestown and killed her father. But then, she had barely believed it having known James Mcgraw on the voyage from Nassau. What men were capable of, she thought wonderingly. 

“Mr Mcgraw,” she said, shifting into the more formal address without noticing, “I'm…well, I'm almost certain I'm…with child.”

James's face was a picture, Abigail thought detachedly. It moved from shocked, to flabbergasted, to concerned, to angry, to something that looked to Abigail to be halfway between longing and melancholy. He really did have the most expressive face, she thought, this time more determinedly dragging her thoughts away from what she had just told him, the reality of her situation. It was a wonder that he had remained captain for so long, when his face showed so clearly every emotion that passed over it. She tried to remember what his face had looked like when giving orders to the crew on the Walrus, whether it had always been this way. She found she could not remember. She only remembered seeing him tell her about Thomas and all that had happened to him, the unashamed, open emotion on his face as he had shed tears over the man whom he loved.

She realised James was waiting to have her attention. 

He cleared his throat. “Are you sure?” 

She nodded, embarrassed. “My cycle-” she said. 

“How late is it?” he asked, almost businesslike, the flush of awkwardness from talking of such things quickly brushed aside. 

“Nearly a month now,” said Abigail, trying her level best to match his steady tone. 

He nodded. “And…can I ask who-?”

Abigail closed her eyes, feeling the memories come flooding back to her, drowning her. She took deep gasps of air, trying to stay afloat. 

“Abigail!” cried James in alarm, moving a few steps closer but stopping short of actually touching her. “It's- if he-” James took a long, deep breath, and Abigail calmed down enough to recognise the anger in James's tone. “If you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to,” he said, and now he merely sounded deeply, bone tired. 

Abigail peeked out at him through her eyelashes, offering a small, painful smile. “Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely. 

“Have you-” he started and then cut himself off. “You need to sit down,” he said urgently, looking annoyed at himself for not having suggested this before. Abigail nigh on rolled her eyes at the sudden mother duck transformation that seemed to have come over Mr McGraw, but followed him into the sitting room and sat down on the sofa. Then he turned to her again. “Have you told Thomas?” he asked, wrinkling his brow. “Or Grace?” 

Abigail shook her head. “Not yet,” she admitted. 

“Why me?” 

Abigail sighed. “Because you know me,” she said simply. 

James nodded but said nothing more. 

They sat in more or less companionable silence for a while before something occurred to James. “Do you want me to tell Thomas? Or Grace?” 

She bit her lip. “I suppose they'll have to know eventually,” she said, looking exhausted beyond her years, and it pained James to see this young woman so marred by tragedy. 

“You can tell them,” she added. “Just- please don't let them ask me any questions about-” she swallowed, “about what happened.”

James nodded quickly. 

“We still need to talk,” said Abigail, but her voice was quiet, almost faded. “About-” Her voice broke. “About Charlestown, about my father, all of it.” 

“We do,” James agreed gently. “But not now. You're dead tired, you need your rest.”

Abigail nodded, conceding to the wisdom of that plan. “Alright,” she mumbled. And then, in little more than a whisper, “can you help me up?” 

James nodded and let her lean on him as she rose from the sofa, walking her to the second bedroom, which was now designated hers. James pulled the covers back for her and she got into bed, James tucking her in. 

She fumbled him an amused smile, and although she could barely keep her eyes open, she said “Can you read me a bedtime story Mr Mcgraw?” Her voice was heavy with sleep and amusement. 

“Really?” he asked. 

She nodded sleepily into her chest. 

“Very well,” said James, grinning, and went to fetch Meditations from his and Thomas's room. She fell asleep like that, listening to James's voice caress the words, and she did not dream. 

  
  
“When he sent me away,” said Abigail, apropos of nothing, “I confronted him. I confronted my father.”

James looked up from the book he had been reading, stunned. “What did you say?” he asked. 

“I asked him if the reason he was sending me away was because he was afraid that someone would ask me what had actually happened, between he and you and Lady Hamilton and my father's man.”

James looked dumbstruck. “Oh.”

“He was a coward, and he betrayed you all, and he hurt you, and I'm still angry about that. I don't know if I'll ever stop being angry about it.” She took a deep breath. “But I wish my last conversation with him hadn't been an argument.” With that, Abigail broke down in tears, quite without warning. 

James, sitting on the other sofa, made to move towards her, to provide comfort, but stopped himself. Perhaps she didn't want his comfort. 

“I'm sorry,” said James gruffly, looking down, hating himself. 

Abigail looked pleadingly up at him, and James finally dared to move to her, sitting gingerly down on the sofa next to her. 

He placed a cautious hand on her back. She leaned into his touch and let him pull her in, so she was sobbing into his shoulder. 

James found he was crying too, somehow, the girl’s tears bringing on his own. He stroked her hair gently as tears fell into his beard. “Oh Abigail, I'm so sorry for taking him away from you.” 

She looked up at him sharply. “Don't,” she said, and then with great effort, rubbed the tears from her eyes and controlled her breathing, so that when she next spoke her voice was almost completely level. “Don't say things you don't mean. I need you to be honest with me. You don't regret killing him, do you?” 

He regretted taking him away from her, he wanted to say. But she was asking him to be honest. And as much as he tried to shake Flint from him, he was still there, the part of him that lurked in the shadows, and when he thought of Miranda, dead, with a bullet hole in her head, humiliated in front of everyone along with him, his anger and bloodthirst and need for vengeance rose up full force. He told Abigail as much. 

She nodded seriously. “I buried her, you know. When I returned to Charlestown. I made sure she had a proper funeral.”

Immediately all of James's anger and hatred dissipated in the face of this girl’s care and love. “Thank you, for that,” he whispered brokenly. “I know she would have appreciated it.”

“Was it enough, though?” she asked. “I keep thinking, if I had been in the room, if I had insisted on staying, seen my father's crimes brought to light…they would never have dared to kill her in front of me, surely.” She was crying again, but they were silent tears, helpless ones, and James hurt to see them. They dared to lock you up to stop you from rescuing Thomas, he thought, and felt the familiar anger bubble up again, but that seemed unkind to say, somehow. 

“Abigail, of all the people who had a hand in her death, none of them were you. There was nothing you could have done.” Nothing Miranda could have done, to avenge Thomas, but beg him to find and kill his father. Nothing Thomas could have done to escape Bedlam, except endure and survive. They had all been rendered so powerless, he thought, tiredly. And though both Abigail and Thomas had escaped, what was there to do now but endure and live? At least as Flint he had a goal, a purpose, something to keep him going for ten years. Thomas seemed happy enough (or at least, as happy as was possible having spent ten years at the mercy and cruelty of others) but what if it wasn't enough for him? Or for Abigail? What if they found they didn't want to settle in this world that had taken so much from them? 

Abigail was looking up at him strangely. “Mr Mcgraw, are you alright? You know you're not to blame for Miranda's death, don't you?”

“That…wasn't what I was thinking about,” James said, although he knew he was, in part. He sighed. “I need to go and feed the chickens,” he said. “You should tell Thomas, about Miranda. She was his wife, you know. I'm sure he would appreciate it.” He sounded dismissive, he knew, and Abigail looked up at him with narrowed eyes. He hoped he hadn't made her cry again, or worse, destroyed the progress that he thought they had made, these past few days. 

But, “I know she was,” Abigail said quietly. “I'll tell him.” And then, “James, wait. Can I come and feed the chickens with you?” 

James smiled and nodded, swallowing down the lump in his throat as he thought how young she sounded, how much life she still had ahead of her. 

  
  
James walked in to find Thomas and Abigail having a heated, if good-natured, debate on education and schooling. 

“But Abigail, not every child is cut out for examinations. Especially written examinations. It doesn't mean they're stupid. Why should that be the only way they're tested?”

“I understand that!” cried Abigail, a little pink-cheeked with indignation. “But how else do you propose to test them?” 

“There are plenty of other ways! Written exams, yes, but other written exercises, not tied down so much to time and place, practical examinations for certain subjects and areas, teacher’s recommendations - there are thousands of ways!” Thomas was leaning forward in his seat, earnest, and James was reminded of him in full flow at one of his salons. He was beautiful like this, and he didn't often get the chance these days, not really. 

“There's a hell of lot of room for human error there! Not to mention teacher bias. And how do you propose to have an equal system, for every child, in every school, regardless of background? As you say you want.”

“I'm not saying it would be easy! But it needs to change!” 

“Perhaps the solution is not to introduce the same system in every school, nor even to only teach in schools,” said James, sitting down next to Thomas. The two of them had been so absorbed in their debate that they had barely noticed his presence until now, and looked up at him in surprise. “And there is an argument to be made that the best test of a student is whether they can do the job at hand, or whether they can learn to do it.” 

“But how can we be sure that students who may well be able to do the job if given the right skills don't get passed over due to lack of opportunity.”

James laughed and for a moment he felt ten years younger again, arguing with Thomas in his study. “Your goals are, as ever, admirable, my dear, but they lack practicality.” He winked at Abigail, and she got a glimpse then of the man he had been, of how fine and young they had been. 

She grinned, feeling entirely at ease for maybe the first time since her arrival. “That's exactly what I was saying!” she exclaimed. “I agree with you entirely in principle, Mr Hamilton, but to put your ideas into practice would be nigh on impossible, certainly for only one man.”

“Don't say that, you'll only encourage him,” said James teasingly, but then they shared a look that was heavy with meaning. He cleared his throat. “If Miranda could see us now,” he said, half-smiling. 

Thomas smiled too. “Abigail told me, about the funeral,” he said, his tone turning more serious. “Thank you, for doing that.”

“It was nothing,” said Abigail. 

Thomas shook his head. “It certainly wasn't nothing,” he countered. 

“No, I mean…she was important to me too. Even in the few short weeks I properly knew her. I would have done it regardless.”

Thomas nodded. “Well, I'm glad.” He slumped back, then leaned forward again. “We should raise a toast to her,” he said, bouncing up again. “The people who knew and loved her.”

“She deserved more,” said James, almost under his breath, as Thomas went into the kitchen to fetch the wine. Abigail heard him, and cast him a sympathetic glance. He grimaced and looked down. 

Thomas came back in to break the awkward silence that had fallen, giving them both a glass, Abigail's watered down rather. “To Miranda,” he said, raising his glass, and the other two followed suit and then drank, thinking of the woman who had been such a big, important, and most importantly, loving part of their lives.

James drained his glass first and set it on the table. “I'm going to bed,” he said quietly, and departed from the room. Thomas watched him go, then sat heavily down next to Abigail. 

“He still blames himself for her death,” she said, not sure if she was explaining, or just needed to voice the thought. 

“Yes,” said Thomas. “He shouldn't. He blames himself for too much.” He sighed. “I'm sorry about your father,” he said. 

Abigail snorted. “I'm sorry about him too,” she said. Thomas looked at her strangely. “For what he did to you. For betraying you. And helping to imprison you. That's…I know what that's like, sort of, now, and…nobody deserves that. You certainly didn't.”

Thomas smiled grimly. “Thank you, for saying that. But you don't have to apologise for the sins of your father. God knows, my own was far worse. At least yours loved you.”

“Did he? Or did he just use me as an excuse to betray you?” 

Thomas grimaced. “There's no point trying to examine the motivations of a dead man,” he said. 

“Isn't there? Because I don't understand how my father's men could have imprisoned me, where they got that authority, if it were not from the orders of my father himself. I- I don't understand, and I need to understand, Thomas.” She blinked tears away from her eyes for what felt like the tenth time that day. 

Thomas put a very careful hand on hers, and then kept it there when she did not flinch away. “I used to be like that. I needed to understand everything, everyone, because if I could, maybe I could change them. Now…” He shook his head, running a hand through his short hair.” I don't know if I have the strength to even wonder.” He pulled his hand gently out of her grip. “I'm going to check on James,” he said, sounding like a man twenty years his senior. “Will you be alright?” 

Abigail blinked up at him, forced a smile. “In a manner of speaking,” she said. “Will you?” 

Thomas smiled back, although there was no humour in it, only sadness. “In a manner of speaking,” he said. He disappeared into his and James's bedroom, and Abigail just sat for a few minutes, until she found the strength to get up and go to bed. 

None of them slept terribly well that night. 

  
  
They muddled along, well enough, the three of them – four when Grace was there, and she was becoming a semi-permanent fixture at the Hamilton-McGraw household, having no family of her own and having been begged by Thomas and James (separately) to be around for Abigail as much as she could.

It was James who went to see Grace first, just a few weeks after Abigail had arrived.

Grace looked delighted to see him. “James!” she exclaimed, grinning broadly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

James gave Grace a tentative smile. “Are you busy?” he asked quickly. “May I come in?” 

“No, and yes, in that order,” she said, smiling. 

James relaxed, just slightly. He was still agitated though, Grace could tell. 

Once she had made them both cups of tea and encouraged James to sit down on the sofa, she turned to him. “What can I do for you, then, son?” 

It was an epithet that fell naturally from Grace’s lips, but James blushed anyway. “It’s just- Abigail’s pregnant,” he said, as if she didn’t already know. She had spent a little time with the girl, not a lot, but enough to know she was an extremely lovely girl who would probably be a wonderful mother, if a little young. Grace had wondered and fretted about that, but in the end, it wasn’t her business unless Abigail wanted to tell her. 

“Yes, I know that,” she said patiently. 

James grimaced awkwardly. “Of course you do. It’s just…I can only speak for myself but…I know very little about childbirth, and even less about children. I- my own mother died in childbirth, while having me, and I- I don’t want that to happen to Abigail.” He looked upset, almost tearful, to Grace, and she wanted to gather this poor boy up in her arms for how much he cared. “But, like I said, I don’t know anything, and I don’t think Thomas knows all that much either.” 

“He and Miranda never had any children then, did they?” she asked. It was something she was curious about, the precise nature of the relationship between the man she thought of as her son and the woman who would have been her daughter-in-law, had she ever met her, although of course she could not ask Thomas. 

James gave her a strange glance that hid as much as it revealed. “No, they didn’t,” he said shortly, and Grace wondered if he had known the precise nature of Thomas and Miranda’s relationship himself. 

“You’ve taken her to a doctor?” she asked. 

“Yes of course,” James said, “and he’ll do the best he can for her when we need him but…I was just wondering…although I’ve no right to ask for it of course…whether you would be able to…help?” He looked up at her so hesitantly, as if he did not even deserve to be asking for it, and this time she gave into her impulse and pulled the man into her arms. 

“Of course I’ll help, you silly goose,” she said, affectionately. “I was planning on being around more anyway, but I didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes. But since you asked so nicely…” She drew back and grinned at him, and this time she was rewarded by a proper (if sheepish) smile as James grinned back. 

“Alright. Good. Thank you.” He paused. “Um, Abigail has some lady problems and she doesn’t want to go to the doctor unless they’re really serious but I don’t know if they’re serious and I don’t want to invade her privacy like that but she would like a second opinion so…would you be able to come and see her?” 

Grace burst out laughing. “Of course I’ll come,” she said, when her laughing fit was over. “That’s what I’m here for.” 

James kissed her cheek in gratitude.

  
  
  
“She’s fine,” said Grace, coming out of Abigail’s bedroom, to find James having kittens in the kitchen. “Just a little tender. From my experience, we should be able to feel the baby move soon.” 

“She’s been feeling it move since just before she arrived here,” said James, confused. Then it dawned on him. “You mean, we will be able to feel it move?” He looked astonished, and Grace was as endeared as ever by him.” 

“Yes,” she said, amused. “Kicking and writhing and carving out its own little space in there, little tyke.” 

James’s forehead creased with concern. “Won’t that hurt?” 

“A little, yes, from what I hear,” she said. “Although not nearly as much as the birth itself.” 

James looked even more put-out by that. 

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s perfectly normal.” 

“I know that!” James said, frustrated. “I just…don’t like to think of her in pain.” 

She stooped to kiss his forehead. “I know, my dear. But unfortunately…it’s a fact of life, I’m afraid.” 

“Hmm,” was all James responded to that. 

Grace was about to leave him to it, until James looked up at the sound of the door opening. 

“Where are you going?” he asked. He closed his eyes, reprimanding himself internally. “I mean, won’t you stay for dinner? Thomas will be back soon, and I’m sure he’d love to see you.” 

“James, my dear,” she said, smile blooming on her face. “I would be delighted.”

  
  
It was about a month later when Thomas cornered her. The four of them had been around the dining table, enjoying dinner. They had then repaired to the living room, only to be delighted by the baby kicking. Abigail had put up with their cooing and excitement and astonishment at the tiny, moving, living being inside her like a trooper, until Grace decided that she had probably been fawned over enough and declared that she was going to clear the dishes from the table. Thomas volunteered to help her.    
As soon as they were both in the kitchen, Grace turned her sharp-eyed gaze on him.

“What is it?” she asked immediately.

“What do you mean?” said Thomas, looking away, surprised at having the tables turned on him.

“I know you, Thomas Hamilton McGraw,” she said, “and I know that you’ve been antsy all night, waiting for an opportunity to get me alone.” Thomas met her eyes then, surprise warring with affection in his bright blue eyes, almost unchanged from those of the boy she had known so many years ago now. “So, out with it, then.”

Thomas let out a helpless laugh at how well she knew him, somehow, even after all these years. He was blessed, he thought, to have been reunited with two people who still seemed to understand him so well, even with all the pain and hurt and change that the intervening years had brought. It was reassuring, grounding even, especially on the days when he looked in the mirror and barely even recognised himself.

“It’s Abigail,” he said, without preamble.

“Ah, yes, your new surrogate daughter,” said Grace, smiling toothily. “Not to worry, dear boy, your husband has already come to me on her account.”

“He has?” said Thomas. Then he smiled softly. “Of course he has.”

Grace nodded. “And I’ll be there, for all of you, when you need me. Although I dare say you’re doing well enough for on your own.”

Thomas blushed pink at the praise. “Still,” he said. “It would be wonderful to have you around. Not just for Abigail’s sake, either.”

“No?” said Grace, raising an eyebrow.

“No.” Thomas shook his head. “We’re a family, and we ought to be together always. If you’re amenable to that, of course,” he added quickly.

Grace smiled wondrously. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

Thomas smiled, hesitant but bright. “It would take a while of course, for James and I to build suitable accommodation to move into, so you could have our bedroom.” Grace started to protest, but Thomas silenced her. “No, no, I won’t hear any of it. But you should be well set up here by the time the baby arrives.” He paused again. “Of course, only if you would like to,” he said, after a moment. He looked up at her. “What do you think?”

In lieu of an appropriate answer, Grace threw her arms around him. “Of course,” she mumbled into his shoulder, finding herself quite overcome with emotion. “Of course I’d love to move in here, Thomas. Of course I want to be part of your family.”

Thomas hugged her back and blinked tears out of his own eyes.

  
  
  
Abigail woke from her nightmare with a silent scream. After about a minute of just lying there, calming her breathing, she collected herself and got out of bed. This wasn’t the first nightmare and she knew it wouldn’t be the last. She needed tea.

What she didn’t expect, however, was to find Thomas in the kitchen, making tea for himself. They both jumped when they saw each other.

“Oh!” Thomas exclaimed. “Abigail.” He took a moment to calm down, then hitched a smile onto his face. “I was just making tea - would you like some?”

She nodded.

Abigail sat down on the sofa and Thomas handed her a mug, sitting down next to her and taking a sip from his own. He sighed and leaned back against the sofa, closing his eyes. Abigail curled her legs up underneath her, snuggling into the sofa and warming her hands with the hot tea.

“Thank you,” she said, after a few minutes of unbroken silence.

Thomas gave her a tired smile. “You’re welcome.”

He sighed again. Abigail glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He looked awful, exhausted. It was a look Abigail recognised - her own eyes wore that haunted look after a nightmare. “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked tentatively.

Thomas shook his head mutely. “N-no,” he said croakily, finding his voice. “Nightmare.”

Abigail nodded sympathetically. “Me too,” she said quietly.

Thomas turned and looked at her carefully then, more so than he had since her arrival. Abigail returned his gaze, standing up to his scrutiny. Thomas offered a hand, and Abigail took it.

They sat there in companionable silence for a while, until Abigail was yawning.

“You should go to bed,” said Thomas.

Abigail shook her head. “It’s almost morning,” she said, but she yawned again. Thomas raised his eyebrows at her. “I’m fine.” She sighed deeply. “I don’t like to go back to sleep in the dark, after a nightmare. I always nightmare again.”

Thomas nodded. “Me too.”

“It’s not so bad here, where I know I can get up and get a cup of tea. Where I know you and James and Grace are here if I need you. And I can go back to sleep when it’s daylight. But for most of my journey to find you, I barely slept.”

Thomas nodded sympathetically. “I feel like I barely slept for ten years,” he said quietly.

Abigail took his hand again, laid her head tentatively on his shoulder. 

“Would you sleep better in here? This sofa should just about fit the two of us, if I get a blanket.” 

Abigail nodded sleepily into Thomas’s shoulder.

Thomas gently pushed Abigail off his shoulder into the sofa so he could rise and retrieve a blanket. Then they curled up on the sofa, where Abigail fell asleep almost immediately, and Thomas not long after. That was how James found them, early the next morning, having woken up to the cold space in his bed where Thomas wasn’t.

James knelt down in front of Thomas, who blinked his eyes open sleepily. “Morning love,” he said.

James leant forward and kissed his husband softly on the lips. “Good morning,” he replied huskily. He nodded towards Abigail. “Is she alright?”

Thomas smiled tiredly. “As alright as any of us are. We both slept through the night, at least.”

James nodded. “I’m glad,” he said. He turned his sad eyes on Abigail. “You have some similar experiences, I think.”

“I think we do,” said Thomas seriously. “I wish we could somehow have protected her from that.”

James’s eyes filled with further anguish. “I wish I could have protected both of you.”

“It’s not your fault, James. What happened to Abigail.”

“Isn’t it?” said James.

Thomas shook his head helplessly, and leaned forward to kiss his nose. “It doesn’t matter. She has us now. And we have her.”

“Yeah.” James smiled slowly, then suddenly, like the glow of a sunrise. “Yeah, that’s true.”

It was then that Abigail woke up, yawning and stretching, blinking up at them. “Morning James,” she said. 

James smiled softly back at her.

She turned to Thomas. 

“Soon enough I’ll be too big for us both to fit,” she said matter-of-factly.

That surprised a snort out of Thomas, while James raised an eyebrow next to him.

Abigail grinned awkwardly.

“Right,” said James, rubbing his hands together. “Breakfast time, I think.” And he bustled off to the kitchen, a regular rural housewife. Or husband. Abigail and Thomas shared a grin with each other.

 

Thomas and James had thought that their first Christmas together would be a quiet affair. That was before Grace and Abigail came into their lives. The two women had very different ideas.

“You have to celebrate Christmas properly!” said Abigail. “Otherwise what’s the point?”

Grace nodded. “I’ve barely had anyone to celebrate Christmas with these past few years, since Larry died.” Larry had been Grace’s husband.  “Now I have two surrogate sons and a surrogate daughter to spoil, you can’t deny an old lady that pleasure!”

Thomas grinned at James who looked away, embarrassed, but pleased. Abigail blushed, but rallied quickly to press their advantage.

“Exactly. Plus, I have to take advantage of this,” she patted her bump, starting to show in earnest nearly four months into her pregnancy, “I can eat for two, with no shame.” She grinned.

Thomas looked at her seriously. “There’s no shame for anything in this house.”

James smiled gently, reminiscing. Then he said, “I suppose we can’t deny you this.”

“No,” said Abigail, smugly, “you can’t.” Her and Grace shared a delighted grin.

“And we wouldn’t want you to, would we, darling?” Thomas said, turning to James, delighting in the freedom with which he could use the affectionate epithet, and delighting even more in the flush that suffused James’s cheeks at its utterance. He laid a warm hand on James’s knee. “Especially now we have a family to celebrate with.” He sat back, feeling contented in a way he’d never have believed possible, ten months ago nor even ten years ago, in some ways.

“Easy for you to say,” grumbled James, “you won’t be the one doing all the cooking.”

“Oh hush,” said Grace. “I’ll do as much cooking as you like. Just enjoy this special day.”

“It’s still a week away yet,” said James, but even he was smiling despite himself.

Abigail thought it wonderful that any of them had anything to smile about, let alone all four of them having so much to smile about, most of all each other and their company.

  
  


Christmas Eve was the first night of many that Grace spent in her new bedroom at the McGraw-Hamilton residence.

She made Christmas pies with Abigail, and looked on tenderly as the girl looked so excited upon pulling the cooked pies out of the oven and seeing how she had created something so delicious. This tenderness increased tenfold when Abigail shyly invited her to lay her hand on Abigail’s growing belly, to feel the little kicks of the baby inside.

She found James standing just outside the room, looking on but not wanting to interrupt.

“Sometimes it strikes me just how young she still is,” said Grace in an undertone, as they watched Abigail sieve icing sugar over the pies and laugh delightedly.

James nodded, pain pulling at the crinkles in the corner of his eyes. “Too young for everything that’s happened to her,” he said. He closed his eyes. “Too young to be a mother so soon.”

Grace took his hand in a gentle grip. “Yes,” she agreed. “But look at her. She’s happy. That’s down to you, and Thomas.”

“And you,” said James softly. She squeezed his hand in response.

“James!” Abigail exclaimed, upon turning around and seeing him standing there with Grace. “Look at the pies I made!”

James did as he was bid and came forward to examine the pies more closely. “Mm, they look delicious,” was his verdict after looking at them intently for a few long moments, while Abigail waited with bated breath. He looked up at her questioningly. “May I try one?”

“You must!” she exclaimed. “I won’t serve them tomorrow, unless they meet your approval.”

“As head cook,” said Grace, under her breath, earning a laugh from Abigail and a mock-glare from James.

“What’s all this?” asked Thomas, coming into the kitchen with wet hair, having just washed it.

“James is going to try one of my pies!” said Abigail.

“You made pies?” Thomas asked, sounding equally as delighted as Abigail. James glanced fondly over the two of them.

“I did!” said Abigail. “And you can have one too,” she added. “But only after James has taste-tested them.”

“Ah, of course,” said Thomas, nodding sagely. “Head cook privileges.”

James snorted and Abigail laughed again, loud and carefree.

“Very well,” said James, trying and failing to look stern - Abigail just grinned at him. “Which one should I try, Abigail.”

Abigail bent down so her eyeline was level with the counter, and sized them up. “This one,” she said, passing a pie in the middle row to James.

“Your wish is my command, miss,” said James, and popped the pie in his mouth.

He bit into it and immediately spat it out.

Abigail’s face fell. “Not good?” she asked, braced for the blow.

James shook his head, still spluttering, the pie salvaged in his hands. “No, it’s good,” he reassured her, between pants, “I should just wait until it’s cooled down until I stuff it in my mouth like that.”

The kitchen exploded in laughter.   
  
  


Christmas Day dawned bright and cold, just the way it should be, Thomas thought. There were no ostentatiously expensive presents or parties attended by the creme de la creme of society to be had here, but Christmas would be all the better for it, Thomas reckoned.

James had already left the bed by the time he’d woken up, having insisted he needed to help prepare the turkey, but he had left a cup of coffee on the bedside table, and, wonder of wonders, it was still hot. Thomas sipped it and savoured the bitterness on his tongue and the heat that flooded through him at the first taste. He wiggled his toes in delight.

Thomas pulled his robe on to walk to the house from their little cosy lean-to in the garden. It was chilly, but nothing like the cold of London in the wintertime. Thomas shivered just thinking about the winters spent in Bedlam, a thin blanket and a glassless barred window all that stood between him and the freezing outside world. Then he was entering the warmth of his hearth and home, the one he shared with James, and he shook away those dark thoughts, pausing only to be thankful that his road had finally,  _ finally  _ led him here.

“Morning, Thomas!” Abigail piped up from the sofa, still in her nightgown and wrapped in a blanket, hands wrapped around a warm mug. Thomas smiled at her and joined her on the sofa.

“How are they doing?” Thomas asked, nodding towards the kitchen.

“I heard James swearing at the turkey earlier,” said Abigail, musingly, “but I think he was just trying to get the turkey in the oven.”

Thomas snorted. “We’ll leave him to it, then,” he said. Abigail nodded in agreement. “How’s the little one doing?” he asked, gesturing at her belly.

“He's awake, if that's what you're asking,” said Abigail, smiling tiredly. “In fact, he's been awake for the past few hours.”

“Ah,” said Thomas knowingly. After a moment’s thought, he added, “Or she.”

Abigail shook her head smilingly. “Only a boy could be this demanding,” she said, sagely. “And Grace agrees with me.” Thomas laughed.

“What do I agree with?” asked Grace, coming into the room.

“That the baby’s going to be a boy, apparently.”

“Oh yes,” said Grace, nodding. That's a little boy in there, making his presence felt.” She gave Abigail a sympathetic smile. “No doubt about it.”

“Wish James would hurry up with breakfast,” said Abigail, loud enough for him to hear. “I'm famished.”

“Give me a minute!” yelled James from the kitchen, and Thomas decided to go and offer his put-upon husband some aid and comfort, throwing an apologetic grin in Abigail’s direction.

 

“Just a second!” James exclaimed as he heard someone enter the kitchen.

Thomas sauntered up to him and put his hands on James's shoulders, immediately beginning to massage them. James relaxed under his touch, and Thomas leaned in to kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear.

“What's all this then, darling? You know there's no need to get stressed. Abigail doesn't mind, really. She's just stressed and hungry because of the baby.”

James sighed and nodded. “I know,” he said. “I just want everything to be perfect today.” He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that unexpectedly threatened to fall.

“I know darling,” said Thomas reassuringly, now cuddling him from behind. “But if I have you, and Abigail and Grace, it's perfect enough for me. And for them too, I'd wager.”

James nodded again, letting out a shaky breath. “Me too,” he said softly. He turned around and kissed Thomas brazenly on the lips, revelling in the sensation, in how he was able to do this so freely. “Now,” he said, pulling away reluctantly, “get out of here and let me get this ruddy food done.”

Thomas nodded, grinning breathlessly, and scarpered out of the kitchen under James's stern glare.

 

It was only later, sitting around the table with everyone laughing and enjoying the food, that James could truly relax and deem the day a success.

Thomas, a couple of glasses beyond tipsy, was raising his glass in toast after toast. James looked on fondly (and obediently held up his glass) as Thomas toasted Christmas, America, James’s carpentry skills, wine, and many other things besides. He ended the toast, after the over-enthusiastic bonhomie, by levelling his gaze at each of them in turn, gaze sharp as it had ever been in any of his salons, but more emotional and vulnerable than he’d ever have allowed himself to be in front of his salon guests. “And to my family,” he said, tipping his glass to each of them in turn, holding James’s gaze a fraction longer than anyone else’s. “The best one I could ever ask for.”

They all nodded and hummed in assent, drinking from their glasses and looking away so none of them caught the tears in each other’s eyes and set themselves off.

All in all, it was the most perfect Christmas any of them could have asked or hoped for.   
  


 

Thomas rushed in to the house from his meeting with the town’s leading figures. He was busy trying to set up a school for all the children (and even some of the adults, should they want it), but Abigail was due any day now, and Thomas really didn’t want to miss the moment. More than that, he wanted to be there for the young lady whom his colleagues in town knew as his daughter. Even though he knew logically that either James or Grace (and in many cases, both of them) were in the house with Abigail every moment of every day, he didn’t want to let her down.

So when he opened the door of their little home and heard Abigail’s cries of pain and labour coming from her room, he practically ran to the door and wrenched it open, any sense of propriety that had lingered after more than a decade forgotten.

“Abigail,” he gasped, rushing to her bedside to grasp her hand. She looked up at him and managed a pained smile, before gasping and crying out in pain as another contraction shuddered through her body. James sat on her other side, holding her other hand. He was white-knuckled, although whether from Abigail’s tight grip or his own nerves, Thomas wasn’t sure. Looking at the sweat beading on James’s own head and the utter terror in his eyes, and judging by the bruising grip Abigail had on his own hand, it was probably both. He looked towards Grace for reassurance.

He didn’t get it. Grace was at the end of the bed, focusing on helping Abigail get through her contractions, but once one was over, she looked at Thomas, and he saw the fear in her eyes.

He gulped and looked at James, but his husband hadn’t noticed the silent exchange. Not that he looked any less scared than Thomas felt, but James had been having kittens about Abigail for the past month. Thomas didn’t think it was necessary to frighten him more than he already was.

Thomas squeezed Abigail’s hand reassuringly and let go. He bent over and whispered in Grace’s ear. “No doctor?” he asked.

“James went earlier,” said Grace. “He was out with a patient 10 miles away. His wife said she’d tell him as soon as he got back, but I don’t think it will be soon enough for us. The baby is coming now.”

Thomas gripped both of Grace’s hands in his. “Is she alright? I mean, as far as you can tell?”

Grace looked helpless, in a way that  took the ground away from his feet.

“Right,” he said.

“I’m doing the best I can,” she said, fretfully. “But I’ve never done this before, not really. I was there for the birth of my sister’s child, but so was my mother.”

Thomas nodded. “Just do your best,” he said. He looked up at her, made a brave attempt at a smile. “Which I know you will.”

Grace nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat, and they re-entered the bedroom.

“Everything all right?” asked James, looking up.

Thomas smiled tightly. “Of course.”

“The doctor’s not coming, is he?” said Abigail from the bed.

They all exchanged glances, but Grace was the one to answer. “No, sweetheart, he isn’t.”

Abigail nodded, seemingly calm about the news, and then gasped, hard and fast.

“Abigail, Abigail,” said James hurriedly, taking her hand in both of his. “It’s all going to be fine, alright? Grace is here, she knows what she’s doing-” Here he looked pleadingly at Grace, who looked away so she didn’t have to meet his gaze, this boy who she considered a son, so he didn’t see the uncertainty in her eyes. James bit his lip. “And you have me and Thomas, we’ll be right here with you all the way.”

“No, it’s, it’s the baby, I’m having the baby now,” said Abigail through pained breaths.

“She is,” confirmed Grace, bent at Abigail’s feet.

Thomas and James exchanged panicked glances.

“Alright, Abigail, my darling,” said Grace, fighting against the strain in her voice to sound reassuring. “I’m going to need you to push.”

 

It all went in a blur after that, tears and screams and blood and bodily fluids. But in the end, Abigail had been right. In her arms she cradled a little baby boy. His mother bent down and kissed his tiny forehead, and his grandfathers and great grandmother looked on, exhausted in mind nearly as much as Abigail was in body, but exhilarated.

James looked around at them and thought what a beautiful tableau they made, and resolved to take out his sketchbook and put the scene to paper, when he had the chance, between the many sleepless nights and long days that were surely to come, with the bawling little boy who was going to be so, so loved.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so pumped that I managed to finish this! It's unbeta-ed because I was right down to the wire, so if anyone notices any glaring plot holes/errors/spelling and grammar mistakes, please let me know! (Although I would appreciate some nice comments as well). I hope you enjoyed! Thanks to [blacksailsbigbang](https://blacksailsbigbang.tumblr.com/) for arranging this, it's been fun! And this officially the longest thing I've ever written!


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